p 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 


OF  CALIF.  LIBHAHY,  LOS 


THE  MIRROR  AND 
THE  LAMP 


By 

W.  B.  MAXWELL 

Author  of 

THE  DEVIL'S  GARDEN,  IN  COTTON  WOOL 
MRS.  THOMPSON,  THE  RAGGED  MESSENGER,  ETC. 


O3J 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1918 
THE  BOBBS-MERRIU.  COMPANY 


PRESS  OF 

BRAUNWORTH  fc  CO. 

..Oi  K  MANUFACTURER! 

BROOKLYN,   N.  V. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 


2131122 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 


ROME  resembled  Athens,  Brussels  was  just  a  smaller 
Paris,  one  country  town  is  very  like  another;  but  St.  Dun- 
stan's  is  like  nothing  except  itself. 

Even  the  idlest  tourist  at  once  recognises  the  spell,  and  in 
every  minute  that  he  lingers  he  submits  to  its  deepening 
force.  He  is  not  so  much  affected  by  what  he  sees  as  by 
what  he  feels.  The  place  is  old,  the  streets  are  narrow,  and 
over  all  the  clustered  roofs  rises  the  splendour  of  the  church 
of  Christ ;  here  one  pauses  with  bowed  head  to  gaze  at  hal- 
lowed ground,  here  one  strains  lifted  eyes  to  catch  the  sun- 
light on  stones  that  look  like  lace  hung  as  a  curtain  in  the 
sky;  under  that  archway  used  to  ride  mailed  warriors; 
round  those  cloisters  came  lines  of  singing  monks ;  and  over 
the  marshy  plain,  through  the  night  of  history,  from  cities 
that  are  dust  and  lands  that  have  long  since  lost  a  name, 
wended  their  way  century  after  century  the  endless  pilgrim 
horde — but  all  this  is  nothing,  the  drone  of  hireling  guides, 
the  tale  of  a  three-penny  book,  the  echo  of  memory's  sleepy 
tongue.  What  is  real  is  the  faith  that  clings  to  the  faithful 
spot.  Here  men  believed ;  here  men  are  still  believing. 

It  is  less  than  nothing  that  all  which  was  material  should 
perish  and  decay,  if  all  that  was  spiritual  and  impalpable 
may  continue  to  live.  This  is  the  third  church  that  has 
stood  in  the  meadow  blessed  by  the  saint,  and  if  this  too 
falls  a  fourth  shall  take  its  place ;  but,  new  or  old,  it  would 
always  be  the  same  church — the  self -same  church  wherein 
conquering  lords  of  a  savage  isle  craved  pardon  from  the 
God-man  whom  their  ancestors  had  killed,  wherein  sun- 
beams slanting  down  from  lofty  windows  made  tremulous 
tinted  halos  for  a  martyr's  brow;  wherein  foreign  refugees 
crept  underground  to  worship  in  darkness,  and  praise  the 
maiden  queen  whose  hand  was  strong  enough  to  hold  them 
safe. 

1 


And  so  it  is  with  the  whole  town.  Time  cannot  truly 
touch  it,  and  change  leaves  it  unchanged.  Where  fierce- 
eyed  Romans  used  to  buy  and  sell  their  slaves,  bland  traders 
now  assemble  with  samples  of  hops  and  grain;  the  Nor- 
man keep  is  a  gas-work,  the  dungeon  mound  a  nursemaid's 
garden;  the  pilgrims'  inn  and  its  hundred  beds  have  van- 
ished in  flame;  carved  scrolls  and  polished  stone  are  suc- 
ceeded by  slates  and  bricks  and  plate  glass;  the  vulgar 
music-hall  brings  ruin  to  the  legitimate  theatre,  and  in  its 
turn  is  destroyed  by  the  lantern-flash  of  a  cinema  show; 
boat  expresses  sweep  through  iron  girders,  screaming  in  the 
silence  of  night  and  belching  out  foul  clouds  by  day;  look 
where  you  will,  you  can  see  the  ugliness  of  an  ugly  age,  the 
cynical  contempt  for  grace,  the  unfaltering  grasp  at  gain ; 
railway  companies  and  jerry-builders,  municipal  committees 
and  gentlemen  speculators,  have  all  tried  to  spoil  the  grey 
old  city; — and  yet  still  the  air  that  blows  across  its  three 
towers  is  holy,  the  smoke  that  rises  from  its  hearths  has  a 
perfume  of  incense,  and  the  murmur  of  its  river  is  a  prayer. 

Such  and  so  great  has  proved  the  persistent  force  of  the 
spell. 


II 

MRS.  CHURCHILL  used  to  tell  her  sons  that  when  their 
father  died  she  felt  utterly  lost.  She  was  overwhelmed  by 
fear  as  well  as  by  grief.  It  seemed  such  a  tremendous  task 
that  Providence  had  set  before  her — to  watch  over  three 
little  fatherless  boys  all  the  time  while  they  were  changing 
into  three  wise  good  men,  ready  to  fight  life's  battle,  sound 
of  limb  and  clean  of  mind. 

She  further  told  them  that  at  this  period  she  might  have 
lightened  her  burden  by  marrying  again ;  the  husband  who 
was  in  heaven  would  have  understood  and  approved;  only 
for  their  sake  she  had  abstained  from  a  second  marriage. 
There  and  then — that  is  to  say,  as  soon  as  the  first  agony  of 
sorrow  had  abated  and  prayer  had  begun  to  fortify  her — 
she  had  made  a  solemn  vow  to  dedicate  herself  to  their 
service  as  long  as  they  should  need  her.  And  this  they  were 
always  to  remember — bearing  it  in  mind  if  the  time  came 
when  she  grew  to  be  a  clog  rather  than  a  prop — that  she  had 
been  brave  for  them  when  they  were  small  and  helpless, 
and  so  they  must  deal  gently  with  her  in  her  old  age. 

She  told  them  also — and  they  loved  to  hear  it — how  in 
her  perplexity,  surrounded  by  the  illimitable  callousness  of 
London,  when  measuring  her  narrow  means  and  realising 
that  there  would  be  only  just  enough  money  to  enable  them 
to  live  decently  in  some  modest  remote  neighborhood,  she 
had  been  suddenly  inspired  to  bring  them  to  St.  Dunstan's, 
where  they  could  obtain  excellent  cheap  education  at  the 
ancient  school,  where  rents  would  be  low,  and  where,  be- 
cause of  the  traditional  Christian  feeling  of  cathedral  towns, 
poor  gentlefolk  may  be  secretly  pitied,  but  are  never  openly 
despised.  She  said  she  firmly  believed  that  the  idea  of 
coming  here  to  St.  Dunstan's  had  been  a  veritable  inspira- 
tion, a  guidance  by  that  invisible  hand  which  takes  especial 
pleasure  in  directing  widows  and  orphans.  For  see  how 
kind  people  had  been  to  them  down  here,  and  how  they  had 
thriven. 

3 


4  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

These  matters,  well  remembered  and  often  pondered  on, 
became  a  sort  of  primal  legend  for  the  boys,  their  story  of 
origin,  rich  in  wonder  and  mystery  as  any  historical  page  or 
romantic  song — the  journey  with  divine  finger-posts  point- 
ing a  way  out  of  the  labyrinth,  the  woman  braving  all  things 
for  love,  the  weak  little  children  that  were  to  grow  strong 
enough  to  protect  instead  of  being  protected.  The  legend 
appealed  to  all  that  was  chivalrous  in  their  natures;  it 
formed  the  basis  of  their  mother's  unquestioned  authority ; 
it  served,  and  a  hundred  times  more  effectually,  for  all  that 
in  households  ruled  by  men  is  represented  to  rebellious 
youths  by  stern  frowns,  angry  growling  voices,  and  the 
dancing  torment  of  a  cane. 

Whenever  severe  reproof  became  necessary  Mrs.  Churchill 
adverted  to  the  legend,  never  failing  on  these  occasions  par- 
ticularly to  point  out  the  extent  of  her  sacrifice  in  absten- 
tion from  giving  them  a  stepfather. 

"You  must  remember,  Tom,"  she  would  say  to  her  eldest 
boy,  when  he  had  really  disgraced  himself,  "I  was  much 
younger.  You  must  not  judge  what  I  was  then  by  what  I 
am  now.  There  were  plenty  willing  to  tempt  me  to  do  what 
no  one  would  ever  have  blamed  me  for  doing." 

"And  it  was  ripping  of  you  not  to  do  it,"  Tom  blurted 
out  hotly  and  eagerly.  "Mother,  I  swear  I'll  never  forget 
it We'll  none  of  us  forget  it." 

Charles,  the  second  son,  contorted  his  face  and  writhed  his 
body  when  this  picture  of  a  possible  stepfather  was  conjured 
up  before  him. 

"Mother,  I  simply  couldn't  have  stood  it.  I  should  have 
run  away  to  sea — or  else  murdered  him.  We  couldn't  have 
stood  any  one  between  you  and  us." 

"No,  Charles,  that  is  what  I  felt  myself.  We  four  must 
hold  together  and  be  all  in  all  to  one  another." 

|]Yes,  yes." 

"Then  why  cannot  you  behave  yourself,  Charles?  Do 
you  think  it  is  gentlemanly,  or  Christian,  or  even  clever,  to 
utter  horrid  words  that  a  poor  neglected  street-boy  might  be 
ashamed  to  speak?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Charles,  with  a  fervour  of  shame  and 
contrition.  "I  think  it  was  beastly  of  me." 

Once,  when  she  had  chidden  her  youngest  boy,  Edward, 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  5 

for  quite  a  slight  fault,  and  the  bogy  second  father  had  been 
almost  automatically  paraded,  she  got  an  answer  that  queerly 
changed  the  orbit  of  confusion  and  brought  swift  moisture 
to  the  wrong  pair  of  eyes. 

"Suppose  I  had  married  again,  Edward — where  would 
you  have  been  then  ?  How  would  you  have  liked  that  ?  You 
wouldn't  have  been  here — not  being  pleaded  with  by  the 
mother  who  loves  and  comprehends  you,  but  being  blown-up 
and  punished  by  a  comparative  stranger.  I  saved  you  from 
that — at  some  sacrifice  to  myself.  I  resisted  temptation.  I 
was  different  then,  you  know.  People  said — and  I  don't 
think  it  was  a  very  great  exaggeration — no,  I  think  it  was 
true — in  those  days  I  was  pretty." 

"But,  mother,"  said  the  little  boy  firmly,  "you  are  pretty 
now.  You  are  the  prettiest  person  I  have  ever  seen." 

And  perhaps  then — for  who  can  say  what  tiny  tortuous 
paths  will  one  day  make  the  widest  roadway  to  a  woman's 
heart  ? — Mrs.  Churchill  for  the  first  time  was  plainly  aware 
that  she  loved  this  boy  more  tenderly  than  she  loved  the 
other  two. 

Neither  Tom  nor  Charles  could  have  made  such  an  an- 
swer ;  neither  could  as  yet  have  dimly  guessed  that  out  of  all 
the  possible  things  that  might  be  said  this  was  the  right 
thing  to  say,  the  only  thing  that,  from  boy  or  man,  would 
at  that  moment  give  exquisite  pleasure.  Edward  was  more 
sensitive  than  the  other  two,  a  finer  organism,  a  more  com- 
plex instrument  that  responded  to  a  fainter  stimulus :  he  was 
going  to  be  very  clever  and  to  make  his  mother  very  proud. 

She  folded  him  in  her  arms,  and  held  her  head  above  his 
head  so  that  he  should  not  see  her  tears. 

They  lived  in  one  of  the  old  streets  near  the  market-place, 
and  their  narrow  little  house  was  just  large  enough  to  con- 
tain them  and  their  single  servant.  When  the  wind  set  from 
the  south  the  cathedral  bells  made  the  window-glass  vibrate, 
and  when  it  set  from  the  east  you  could  hear  the  clock  at 
St.  Martyr's  school  chiming  the  hours.  In  summer  the 
Churchill  boys  did  their  "preparation"  at  home  and  were 
not  particular  about  supper ;  but  in  winter  they  always  went 
to  evening  school,  and  regularly  brought  back  with  them 
three  hearty  schoolboy  appetites.  The  two  elders  especially 
made  the  cold  meat  and  pickles  fly.  Maria,  the  staunch 


6  THE  MIRROR  AND  .THE  LAMP 

and  trusted  maid— to  whom  every  liberty  or  privilege  was 
permitted  except  that  of  giving  notice  to  leave— freely  com- 
mented on  their  voracious  powers. 

11  More  mutton?"  she  would  say,  affecting  incredulity, 
as  Tom  brought  his  plate  once  again  to  the  sideboard.  "You 
astound  me,  Mr.  Thomas."  And  she  laughed  and  whis- 
pered as  she  carved.  "I  see  it's  to  be  Red  Riding  Hood 
for  the  pantomime  at  'The  Royal,'  and  I'm  thinking  they 
wouldn't  be  far  wrong  to  engage  you  for  the  wolf." 

"And  you  for  Granny,"  said  Tom.  "In  the  revised  ver- 
sion, you  know,  where  the  old  woman  is  so  ugly  she  fright- 
ens the  wolf  to  death." 

Tom  resumed  his  seat  at  the  table  opposite  to  his  mother, 
and  Charles  rose,  plate  in  hand.  Then  there  was  more 
bantering  of  honest,  faithful  Maria. 

"Another  slice,  madam." 

"Oh,  do  take  the  whole  joint,  Mr.  Charles,  and  save  me 
trouble." 

"Buck  up,  you  old  slacker — or  I'll  recite  the  poem  you 
don't  like." 

"No,  I  do  not  like  it,"  said  Maria  indignantly. 

To  Mrs.  Churchill  this  supper  hour  was  always  extraor- 
dinarily pleasant.  All  day  long  she  had  been  toiling,  and 
now  the  friendly  night  brought  rest ;  she  was  tired,  she  was 
happy.  Once  again  her  loved  ones  were  gathered  under  the 
roof-tree ;  all  was  well,  since  they  were  well ;  the  work  of 
her  life  was  safely  progressing. 

Truly  it  made  a  pretty  picture:  the  snug  lamp-lit  room, 
the  shining  young  faces,  the  close-drawn  circle  of  home,  and 
the  presiding  genius  sending  out  beams  to  meet  each  glance 
that  came  her  way.  She  was  unquestionably  still  good- 
looking  in  a  gentle,  sedate  manner,  with  a  girlish  figure,  a 
pale,  calm  face,  and  dark  hair  pulled  trimly  back  from  the 
rigid  central  parting,  but  making  graceful  waves  about  her 
ears. 

When  their  meal  was  nearly  over  she  left  the  table  and 
began  to  help  the  maid  in  clearing  things  away ;  but,  while 
passing  to  and  fro,  she  watched  and  listened  and  smiled,  and 
each  night  her  heart  was  full  of  thankfulness  and  hope. 
Tom,  though  only  just  fifteen,  is  so  big  and  strong  already, 


THE  MIRROR  AND.  THE  LAMP  7 

with  such  noble  shoulders,  such  a  broad  chin,  and  such  deep 
notes  in  his  voice;  Charles  is  splendidly  robust  also;  and 
Edward — whose  finely-chiselled  features,  beautiful  mouth, 
and  thoughtful  brow  she  has  now  paused  to  admire — does 
not,  praise  be  to  God,  look  in  the  least  delicate. 

Their  appetites  appeased,  the  two  elders  talked  volubly, 
while  Edward  attended  to  their  discourse  and  seemed  to  feel 
that  as  a  junior  it  would  be  presumptuous  to  introduce  fresh 
topics  or  to  lead  a  line  of  argument.  But  in  fact  the  talk  was 
all  schoolboy  chatter  and  schoolboy  slang,  with  little  per- 
ceptible sequence — as,  for  instance,  of  how  "the  Head"  en- 
deavoured to  be  funny  and  failed ;  of  what  Sergeant  Miller 
said  to  Mr.  Westford  outside  the  gymnasium  door;  of  a 
saloon  pistol  exhibited  with  delicious  daring  by  Gordon 
Secundus  under  a  desk-lid  in  class. 

"The  pistol  is  no  use,"  said  Tom  disparagingly.  "It's  not 
a  real  weapon.  I  bet  the  sergeant  would  laugh  at  it  as  just 
a  toy." 

"I  bet  he  wouldn't.  It  would  put  a  bullet  through  a  man 
at  two  hundred  yards." 

"Rot!"  Tom  said  the  word  with  force,  but  he  continued 
more  doubtfully.  "How  did  Gordon  come  by  it — if  it's  any- 
thing more  than  a  popgun?" 

"Swop — from  Richardson." 

"What  was  the  swop?" 

"Gordon's  entire  stamp  collection,  his  stationary  engine, 
and  five  bob  ready." 

"Oh!  That  shows  Gordon  believes  in  it — but  it  doesn't 
show  anything  else.  If  I  was  going  to  risk  swishing  for  a 
pistol  I'd  want  to  be  sure  it  was  the  real  thing." 

"Gordon  Secundus  won't  be  swished.  He's  too  jolly 
artful.  He'll  enjoy  that  pistol  until  he  twigs  it's  being  too 
much  talked  about,  and  then — you  see — he'll  swop  it  on  to 
Saunders,  Chuff  Brown,  or  one  of  that  lot,  and  let  them  take 
any  swishing  that's  required." 

And  at  this  shrewd  prophecy  they  roared  with  laughter. 

Mrs.  Churchill  loved  that  sound  of  hearty  laughter,  al- 
though evoked  by  jokes  that  often  seemed  pointless  to  her, 
and  she  never  checked  the  high  spirits  of  her  boys  if  she 
could  avoid  doing  so.  But  they  must  of  course  be  consid- 


8 

erate  for  the  feelings  of  others,  show  respect  where  respect 
is  due,  and  above  all  be  gentlemanly,  however  wild  their 
fun. 

Thus  to-night  she  called  Tom  to  order  when  he  began  to 
mock  at  their  vulgar  but  valuable  friend  Mr.  Barrett;  and 
she  also  cut  short  the  delayed  recitation  that  Charles  was 
delivering  to  poor  Maria. 

"Maria,  Maria,  with  her  nose  on  fire, 

Put  on  her  Sunday  clothes. 

She'd  powdered  her  cheek  for  the  end  of  the  week, 
But  quite  forgot  her  nose." 

"Charles,  be  silent.  .  .  .  Good-night,  Maria.  Don't  be 
vexed  with  such  silly  nonsense." 

"I  don't  like  it,  ma'am,"  said  Maria.    "I've  told  him  so." 

"But  you  know  he  doesn't  mean  to  be  unkind.  You  know 
he  is  fond  of  you — that  we  are  all  fond — grateful  too — very 
grateful,"  and  Mrs.  Churchill  followed  Maria  to  the  kitchen, 
soothing  her  all  the  way. 

Lastly,  when  she  returned  to  the  room  again,  she  was 
compelled  to  administer  a  more  serious  rebuke ;  and  now  the 
offender  was  the  one  who  scarcely  ever  offended — her  own 
dear  Edward. 

All  in  a  moment,  during  her  absence,  the  boys  had  begun 
to  talk  of  Christ,  and  the  recent  alleged  discovery  of  an  en- 
tirely new  and  authentic  Gospel. 

"It's  fudge,"  said  Tom.  "Mr.  Sedley  doesn't  credit  a  word 
of  it.  He  says  the  newspapers  start  such  stories.  He 
says  they've  done  it  again  and  again." 

"But  what  a  lark,"  said  Charles,  "if  it  was  true  this  time. 
How  sick  the  beastly  atheists  would  be." 

"Yes,  it'd  let  the  bounce  out  of  'em  nicely — if  what  was 
dug  up  was  proof  positive." 

"It  might  be  only  corroborative  evidence,"  said  Charles, 
obviously  quoting  a  master;  "but  there  would  be  satisfac- 
tion in  that." 

They  talked  on,  speaking  exactly  as  they  had  spoken  of 
the  gymnasium  or  the  saloon  pistol,  but  with  keener  interest 
and  an  even  more  noisy  enthusiasm ;  and  presently  Edward, 


THE  MIEKOR  AND  THE  LAMP  9 

by  reason  of  his  vivacious  suggestions,  was  controlling  this 
debate. 

"I  wish  He'd  break  His  rule  and  do  one  miracle — just 
one." 

"So  do  I.    But  what?" 

"I  don't  know — something  that  would  be  a  knock-down 
blow  to  unbelievers.  Suppose,  when  one  of  them  was  lectur- 
ing— you  know,  lecturing  against  God,  as  Mr.  Nicholson 
says  they  do  in  London — suppose  all  the  lights  went  out." 

"I  don't  see  much  in  that,"  said  Tom, 

"Jolly  tame  miracle  that'd  be,"  said  Charles. 

"But  I  mean  all  over  London,"  said  Edward  eagerly. 
"The  railway  stations — everywhere — so  that  nobody  could 
go  anywhere.  And  when  all  the  workmen  tried  to  mend 
the  gas-pipes  and  the  electric  wires,  they  couldn't." 

"Yes,"  said  Charles,  taking  to  the  idea,  "that  would  be 
rather  a  suck  and  a  sell." 

"And  it  would  mean,"  Edward  went  on  intensely,  "  'Let 
those  who  have  refused  the  light  remain  in  darkness !'  And 
they'd  find  out  that  the  churches  could  be  lit  up  just  the  same 
as  ever — people  would  see  the  lighted  windows.  And  even 
the  atheists  would  understand  the  meaning  of  the  miracle." 

"What  a  funk  they'd  be  in!" 

"But  would  they  really  twig  He'd  done  it?" 

"The  crowd  would  hang  them  on  the  lamp-posts." 

"No,"  said  Edward,  "He  wouldn't  let  it  go  as  far  as  that. 
He'd  frighten  them  half  out  of  their  wits,  but  He'd  save 
their  lives.  He  wouldn't  do  a  miracle  with  death  in  it." 

"What  price  the  swine?  I  call  atheists  the  dirtiest  sort 
of  swine." 

"Or  suppose,"  cried  Edward  excitedly,  "He  just  burned 
up  every  unbelieving  book  as  fast  as  the  printers  could  print 
it.  Or  suppose  He  rang  all  the  bells  in  the  world  without  a 
human  hand  touching  them ;  or " 

And  then  Mrs.  Churchill  interposed. 

"Edward,"  she  said  crushingly,  "of  whom  are  you  speak- 
ing in  that  flippant  irreverent  tone?  You  have  pained  me 
inexpressibly ;"  and  truly  she  was  both  grieved  and  shocked. 

Edward  was  overcome  by  confusion.  He  could  but  mur- 
mur that  he  meant  no  irreverence ;  he  did  not  know  that  it 
was  wrong. 


10  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

"But  Edward,"  said  Mrs.  Churchill  sadly,  "you  ought  to 
know.  'You  have  surprised  me.  I  will  say  no  more.  .  .  . 
Tom,  have  you  any  further  work  to  do  for  to-morrow  i 

"No,  mother." 

"Very  well.    Then  we  will  have  prayers  at  once — and  all 

of  us  go  to  bed." 

With  a  grave  voice  and  unusually  solemn  manner,  she  reaa 
a  chapter  from  the  New  Testament ;  and  after  that  they  all 
four  knelt,  bending  over  the  seats  of  their  chairs,  to  say  the 
lovely  evening  hymn. 

"Teach  me  to  live,  that  I  may  dread 
The  grave  as  little  as  my  bed ; 
Teach  me  to  die,  that  so  I  may 
Rise  glorious  at  the  awful  day." 

Edward's  face  was  white  and  his  lips  trembled,  but  his 
ears  showed  crimson  in  the  lamplight  as  he  knelt  before  his 
chair.  He  did  feel  so  dreadfully  ashamed  of  himself. 

"You  little  ass,"  said  Charles,  when  he  and  Edward 
reached  their  joint  bedroom,  "you  have  fairly  upset  the 
mater.  I  haven't  seen  her  so  upset  for  ages." 

The  wind  was  in  the  east,  and  when  the  clock  above  St. 
Martyr's  gatehouse  chimed  the  next  quarter  Charles  was 
soundly  sleeping.  In  his  room  on  the  other  side  of  the  land- 
ing Tom  snored  comfortably.  But  for  a  long  while  Edward 
lay  wide  awake. 

Shame  and  regret  tortured  him.  He  thought  of  himself 
as  many  million  times  worse  than  a  little  ass.  A  double  hor- 
ror made  him  hot  and  cold,  sending  waves  of  pins  and 
needles  along  his  spine  and  producing  clammy  dampness  on 
his  neck.  He  had  wounded  the  mother  he  fondly  adored 
and  insulted  the  God  he  devoutly  worshipped. 

Inadvertently ;  yes,  but  that  was  no  excuse,  and  not  for  a 
moment  did  he  attempt  to  console  himself  with  it.  He 
ought  to  have  known  better.  Christians,  gentlemen,  boys 
whose  dim  beginnings  are  like  a  Bible  chapter  or  a  chanted 
psalm,  should  not  commit  such  brutal  ignorances. 

A  restless,  unappeasable  activity  of  thought  made  him  feel 
as  if  he  would  never  sleep  again ;  his  eyes  in  this  dark  room 
saw  vivid  pictures;  memory  and  imagination  worked  to- 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      11 

gether  to  show  him  all  that  he  had  truly  seen  or  merely 
dreamed  of;  space  and  time  seemed  nothing,  the  present 
and  the  past  were  one.  He  was  here  tossing  on  his  bed ;  he 
was  hundreds  of  miles  away.  Thus  he  saw  the  sunlight  on 
distempered  walls,  a  trapeze  and  iron  bars,  and  the  bare- 
armed  sergeant  swinging  Indian  clubs ;  and  in  the  very  same 
minute  he  saw  the  white- robed  figure  'of  a  bearded  man 
standing  in  a  moonlit  garden  and  leaning  outstretched  open 
hands  against  the  horizontal  branches  of  a  tree.  One  pic- 
ture belonged  to  yesterday  and  close  by — Miller  in  the  school 
gymnasium.  The  other  picture  was  recorded  in  a  distant 
land  nearly  two  thousand  years  ago — the  Redeemer  of  Man- 
kind making  the  shadow  of  His  cross  fall  on  the  moonlit 
ground  of  Palestine.  The  first  picture  was  a  memory,  the 
second  an  imagination ;  but  to  Edward  Churchill  one  was  as 
absolutely  real  as  the  other. 


Ill 

IT  is  proper  that  boys  should  feel  a  glowing  pride  in  their 
school,  and  the  Churchills,  together  with  their  two  hundred 
fellow-pupils,  were  proud  of  St.  Martyr's.  It  was  not  Eton 
or  Winchester ;  but  it  was  grand  and  old,  perhaps  the  oldest 
foundation  in  England — indeed,  it  was  claimed  to  be  so. 
Moreover,  as  all  things  are  relative  and  comparison  is  the 
only  firm  base  on  which  young  minds  can  frame  their  rough 
and  ready  estimates,  the  fact  that  the  city  of  St.  Dunstan's 
contained  two  other  palpably  inferior  schools  helped  to  puff 
up  all  happy  Martyrites  with  a  becoming  self-glory. 

Day  boys  were  numerous,  and,  far  from  being  looked 
down  upon,  had  rather  the  upper  hand.  Some  element  of 
charity  that  entered  into  the  boarding  arrangement — nomina- 
tions, presentations,  and  so  forth — proved  slightly  injurious 
to  social  prestige ;  for,  again  as  is  probably  proper  or  at  least 
inevitable  to  what  has  always  been  admired  as  the  healthy 
public  school  spirit,  in  these  halls  erected  by  the  order  of 
kind  King  Henry  a  certain  savage  snobbishness  of  youth 
made  itself  plainly  perceptible. 

It  showed  itself  with  strength  in  the  general  attitude 
towards  the  half-dozen  boys  who  avowedly  received  food 
and  erudition  "free  gratis  and  for  nothing."  These  were  the 
six  poor  scholars  perpetually  dowered  by  the  royal  founder 
— "six  lads  of  ample  brow  but  narrow  purse,"  spoken  of  in 
the  famous  poem — or  "Henry's  paupers,"  as  they  were 
called  in  the  school.  No  one  was  unkind  to  them,  but  all 
considered  them  as  fitting  targets  for  shafts  of  wit;  and 
continued  jokes  were  made  at  the  expense  of  the  six,  not- 
withstanding recurrent  commands  from  the  authorities. 

Quite  lately  the  present  "Head"  had  delivered  a  public 
homily  on  the  subject,  linking  it  with  the  wider  topic  of  good 
taste,  comradeship,  and  esprit  de  corps.  "Let  me  tell  you," 
he  said,  "that  if  I  began  to  mock  at  poor  scholars,  I  could 
name  a  hundred  in  this  establishment— scholars  who  are 
poor  in  scholarship,  poor  in  the  sense  of  humour,  poor  in 

12 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      13 

industry;  intellectual  paupers,  mendicants  of  other  folk's 
ideas,  outcasts  from  the  fair  temple  of  true  learning." 

The  boys  enjoyed  this,  felt  that  "Whiskers"  had  distinctly 
scored,  and,  had  they  not  been  in  chapel,  would  have  loudly 
applauded.  They  always  liked  rhetorical  invective  when 
addressed  to  their  mass.  Only  when  called  upon  to  bear  the 
brunt  of  it  individually,  did  it  ever  disturb  them — and  then 
not  too  painfully. 

Day  boys  gained  importance  and  boarders  lost  it  by  the 
circumstance  that  the  school's  greatest  day  of  the  year  oc- 
curred in  the  holidays  just  after  Christmas.  This  was  the 
Martyr's  Feast,  and  as  the  boarders  had  all  scattered  to 
their  respective  homes,  only  residents  were  left  at  St.  Dun- 
stan's  for  the  grand  celebration.  They  told  boarders  all 
about  it  with  a  most  patronising  care — the  glorious  gather- 
ing in  the  school  hall ;  the  reading  of  the  Archbishop's  an- 
nual letter,  which  always  began  with  the  time-honoured 
words,  "Boys  of  St.  Martyr's,  greeting  and  good-will ;"  the 
recitation  of  a  poem  first  in  Latin,  then  in  English,  on  the 
subject  of  one  of  the  noble  virtues;  and,  finally,  the  proces- 
sion to  the  cathedral  and  special  service  there. 

"Dickson,  I'm  describing  it  rottenly,  but  it  was  really 
ripping — best  Feast  I've  seen.  Every  one  said  so." 

"Sorry  you  chaps  are  shut  out  of  it  all." 

"Wonder  your  governor  didn't  bring  you  down  for  it. 
If  I  was  you,  I  should  have  told  him  I'd  rather  see  the  Feast 
than  forty  blooming  pantomimes." 

Naturally  this  sort  of  thing  made  the  absentees  feel  rather 
small,  until  echoes  of  the  Feast  faded  out  of  the  residential 
chatter. 

Now  and  then  there  were  added  to  the  school  roll  a  boy  or 
two  from  a  higher,  if  not  necessarily  a  superior,  stratum 
of  society  than  that  to  which  the  rest  belonged.  These  were 
generally  sons  of  soldiers  quartered  at  the  cavalry  barracks ; 
and  they  sometimes  incautiously  explained  their  presence  as 
an  accident,  saying  that  in  the  ordinary  course  of  events,  if 
it  had  not  proved  more  convenient  to  follow  the  rattle  of 
their  parents'  kettledrums,  they  would  have  gone  to  aristo- 
cratic establishments  where  noble  lords  their  cousins  were 
all  ready  to  welcome  them.  For  such  siding  and  bounce, 
until  they  dropped  the  practice  of  both  vices,  their  lives 


14  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

were  made  a  burden;  but  on  these  occasions  it  was  cer- 
tainly an  insidious,  although  unacknowledged,  comfort  to 
Tom  and  Charles  Churchill  to  be  able  to  take  very  high 
ground  in  condemning  the  glorification  of  rank  and  pedigree. 
'  For  really,  if  one  wanted  to  brag  about  one's  family,  they 
themselves  were  better  qualified  than  anybody  else  to  do  it. 
Their  mother  had  always  allowed  them  to  understand  that 
they  could  claim  kinship  with  the  Churchills.  She  used  to 
talk  in  a  vague  yet  satisfying  fashion  of  cadets  of  noble 
houses  going  out  into  the  world  to  earn  their  livelihood,  of 
great  families  getting  enormously  widespread,  of  some 
members  going  up  and  others  going  down.  They  were  not, 
of  course,  descendants  of  the  illustrious  duke,  but  they  were 
of  his  house.  There  was  no  reason  why  they  shouldn't  be. 

But  Charles  and  Tom  often  joked  about  the  large  hoard- 
ing advertisements  of  "Churchill's  popular  boot-paste."  The 
pictorial  posters  of  the  commodity  were  well  displayed  at 
St.  Dunstan's,  as  everywhere  else.  "No  relation  to  us ;  but 
dash  the  bounder's  cheek  for  using  our  name  without  by 
your  leave  or  for  your  leave." 

Once  when  Tom  had  been  pestered  by  a  crest-collector  to 
produce  examples  of  the  Churchill  coat-of-arms,  Mrs. 
Churchill  told  him  that  his  father  never  troubled  about 
heraldic  devices.  Being  in  business,  he  did  not  think  it 
necessary.  She  added  that  all  his  branch  of  the  family 
was  commercial. 

"Not  the  boot-paste,  mother?" 

"Oh,  no,  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  boot-paste.  I 
feel  sure  those  people  are  not  real  Churchills." 

There  was  nothing  derogatory  in  commerce  for  cadets  of 
noble  houses,  but  Tom  felt  exceedingly  glad  it  didn't  mean 
the  boot-paste ;  and  if  he  never  boasted  of  his  fine  connec- 
tions, perhaps  secret  thought  of  them  made  him  rather  in- 
tolerant of  open,  unquestionable  plebeianism.  For  instance, 
he  and  Charles  loathed  that  vulgarian  Mr.  Barrett,  and  noth- 
ing but  respect  for  their  mother's  wishes  enabled  them  to  be 
decently  civil  to  him. 

Mr.  Barrett  was  the  auctioneer  of  Halberd  Street,  through 
whose  agency  Mrs.  Churchill  had  originally  taken  her  house ; 
and  since  then  he  had  been  useful  to  her  in  arranging  for 
renewals  of  the  tenancy,  and  even  in  advising  her  on  general 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      15 

business  matters.  To  the  boys  he  seemed  a  common,  en- 
croaching person :  a  sandy,  flabby  creature,  with  a  sycophan- 
tic manner  that  changed  in  a  moment  to  gross  familiarity 
if  you  weren't  on  your  guard  with  him;  a  horrid  Low 
Church  believer,  who  went  to  Holy  Trinity  instead  of  to  St. 
Alban's  or  the  cathedral,  who  spoke  of  the  deity  as  "Him 
who"  and  of  his  invalid  wife  as  "pore  Mrs.  Barrett." 

His  only  mitigating  attribute  was  the  reverential  respect 
that  he  professed  to  entertain  for  Mrs.  Churchill.  He  would 
stand  on  the  pavement  bare-headed,  as  though  uncovered 
before  a  queen,  until  she  said,  "Oh,  do  please  put  on  your 
hat;"  and  even  then  he  apologised  for  obeying  her. 

That  the  young  Mr.  Churchills  liked — but  they  did  not  like 
his  coming  round  of  an  evening  and  drinking  weak  whisky- 
and-water  while  he  held  forth  on  railway  debentures  and 
corporation  loans.  They  did  not  like  his  making  their 
mother  visit  the  sick  wife.  They  preferred  that  she  should 
consort  only  with  the  wives  of  the  masters,  the  clergy,  the 
medical  profession — in  a  word,  with  the  gentry.  Mr.  Bar- 
rett, however,  by  fawning  and  flattery,  seemed  to  be  able  to 
make  not  only  Mrs.  Churchill  but  everybody  else  do  what 
he  desired.  And  if  the  arts  of  humbleness  failed  him,  he 
overcame  you  by  sheer  impudence. 

Thus,  meeting  Tom  one  day  in  the  open  street,  he  offered 
him  half-a-crown  as  a  tip.  Think  of  it !  A  tip  from  a  trades- 
man to  a  gentleman — a  tip  to  a  fifth  form  boy,  who  was  a 
member  of  the  football  team — and  a  tip  of  two  shillings  an,d 
sixpence.  Tom  nearly  suffocated.  He  didn't  know  what  to 
do ;  he  thought  he  was  going  to  knock  Mr.  Barrett  down ; 
and  in  the  end — as  he  himself  said,  ruefully  repeating  the 
ancient  facetiousness — he  pocketed  the  insult. 

"There,"  said  Mr.  Barrett,  "don't  stand  on  ceremony. 
See,  it's  a  bright  new  one,  and  will  burn  a  hole  in  your 
pocket  before  you  can  look  round.  Go  on,"  and  he  laughed 
in  an  oily  maddening  way.  "I've  bin  a  boy  myself." 

When  Tom  described  this  incident  to  his  brothers,  Charles 
said,  rather  cynically,  "Well,  if  you  didn't  punch  his  head, 
I  don't  see  what  else  you  could  do  but  take  his  money." 

And  Edward  said  it  was  quite  right  to  take  it.  Anything 
was  better  than  hurting  people's  feelings. 

But  now,  before  long,  something  occurred  to  give  Tom  a 


16      THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

wider  and  more  philanthropic  view  of  that  immense  ma- 
jority of  mankind  called  vulgar,  middle-class,  humbly  born, 
and  other  ugly  names  by  the  exclusive,  aristocratic,  grandly 
descended  few. 

During  the  Easter  holidays  he  and  the  others  had  a  glimpse 
of  their  great-aunt. 

Never  till  now  had  they  heard  of  the  existence  of  this  old 
lady,  and  they  were  indignant,  and  disposed  to  be  implacable 
towards  her,  when  their  mother  told  them  that  she  had  been 
far  from  kind  or  considerate  in  the  past.  But  at  present  it 
seemed  that  she  was  contrite  for  ancient  unkindness,  she 
wanted  bygones  to  be  begones,  and  she  longed  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  her  great-nephews.  Mrs.  Churchill  said 
that  one  must  forget  and  forgive ;  adding  that  the  poor  old 
soul,  although  rich,  was  probably  sad  and  lonely,  and 
further  warning  them  that  she  might  appear  to  their  eyes 
a  little  eccentric  and  they  were  on  no  account  to  laugh  at  her. 

That  warning  was  not  unneeded;  for  Aunt  Jane  struck 
them  as  being  the  most  tremendous  joke  that  had  as  yet  ever 
come  to  enliven  them.  When  presented  to  her  in  her  sitting- 
room  at  the  Rose  Hotel,  where  she  had  taken  up  her 
quarters  for  a  few  days  with  her  maid  and  her  lap-dog, 
they  really  wanted  to  lie  on  the  floor  in  order  to  laugh  at 
their  ease. 

She  was  a  fat,  round  little  woman,  richly  apparelled  in 
velvet  and  lace,  with  all  sorts  of  golden  and  jewelled  orna- 
ments; and  the  way  she  laughed,  cackling  like  a  hen,  the 
way  she  talked  to  the  waiters  and  the  maid,  the  way  she  tried 
to  make  the  dog  jump  through  her  arms,  waddling  about  the 
room  after  him,  and  tripping  on  her  rich  skirts — all  these 
unexpected  phenomena  impelled  one  to  hysterical  mirth,  and 
made  one  class  her  with  such  immortally  ludicrous  types  as 
Ally  Sloper,  the  Widow  Twankey,  or  Miss  Moucher. 

"My  dears,  you're  welcome,"  she  said  hospitably;  "and 
your  dear  Ma  I  must  kiss  again.  Edith,  my  dear,  I  am  so 
glad  to  make  it  up  at  last;"  and  then  she  shouted  to  the 
waiter  to  hurry  with  dinner. 

They  were  to  dine  in  the  sitting-room,  and  the  table  was 
alUet  out  and  ready  on  their  arrival. 

"More  cosy,"  she  said,  "more  homey,  more  kumm-il-fo 
than  downstairs  in  that  horrid  big  kaffy-room.  .  .  .  Well, 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      17 

Tom — you  are  Tom  ? — what  are  you  going  to  be  all  in  good 
time  one  of  these  days  when  you're  quite  grown  up?" 

Tom  replied  that  he  was  going  to  be  a  clergyman. 

"That's  right.  Very  nice,  I'm  sure.  I  like  clergymen — 
not  all,  but  some.  The  Reverend  Canon  Forster,  of  Hove, 
is  a  very  old  friend  of  mine.  .  .  .  And  Charles — this  is 
Charles,  isn't  it  ? — what  are  you  to  be  ?" 

Charles  said  that  he  also  was  going  into  the  Church. 

"Oh,  bless  us  and  save  us!"  cried  Aunt  Jane.  "How 
good  we  all  are !" 

Mrs.  Churchill  explained  that  it  was  a  vocation  with  both 
of  them ;  they  had  never  deviated  in  their  wish  to  enter  holy 
orders,  and  as  well  as  making  her  happy  it  was  working  out 
very  conveniently,  because  they  could  remain  at  school  until 
they  were  nineteen  and  then  pass  on  to  the  theological  col- 
lege in  this  very  town.  There  would  thus  be  no  disruption 
of  home  life  in  the  early  stages  of  their  careers. 

"And  how  about  young  hopeful?  What  does  Number 
Three  intend  to  be?" 

Edward  said  that  he  had  not  yet  made  up  his  mind. 

"An  excellent  answer  too,"  and  Aunt  Jane  gave  her  side- 
splitting imitation  of  poultry.  "P'raps  you  haven't  got  a 
mind  to  make  up  yet  awhile,  Teddy — Teddy's  right,  eh? 
And  take  Auntie's  advice.  When  you  feel  it's  there,  all 
waiting  to  be  made  up — well,  do  it  yourself,  Teddy,  and  don't 
expect  or  allow  other  people  to  do  it  for  you.  .  .  .  But 
there,  I  shall  be  putting  my  foot  in  it.  Merest  fun,  Edith, 
.  .  .  Come!  To  table!  And  let  me  have  Mr.  Teddy  on 
my  right  hand." 

She  was  disconcertingly  vulgar,  and  one  could  see  that 
Mrs.  Churchill  felt  constraint  in  her  company.  But  the 
hearts  of  the  boys  rapidly  warmed  to  her ;  and,  although  it 
made  Tom  shiver  when  he  thought  of  possibly  having  to 
show  her  round  St.  Martyr's,  yet  he  began  to  recognise  in 
her  "  a  real  good  old  gump."  She  meant  well ;  she  was  ami- 
able, if  vain  and  silly ;  and  she  certainly  gave  them  what  in 
school  jargon  might  be  termed  a  gloriosum  festum  atque 
multum  vinum  fizzibum. 

"I  know  boys  like  pop,"  she  said,  as  the  first  cork  was 
discharged;  "and  it  can't  hurt  them,  Edith,  once  in  a  way. 
Have  another  cutlet,  Charles.  Cutlets  drive  away  growing 


18  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

pains.  There's  roast  turkey  and  plum  pudding  to  follow. 
They  told  me  downstairs  the  menoo  wasn't  seasonable,  but 
I  said  'Bother  the  seasons.'  ...  My  dears,  it  does  me 
good  to  have  you  all  around  me — and  I  hope  you'll  visit  me 
at  my  little  house  in  Montagu  Square.  I'll  take  you  to  the 
theatres,  and  show  you  Madame  Toosso's." 

It  was  after  dinner  that  the  great  discovery  occurred. 

Tom,  cheered  and  replenished  with  the  good  fare,  and 
becoming  expansive,  persisted  in  talking  of  "the  family," 
asking  many  questions,  to  which  his  hostess  replied  quite 
readily. 

All  those  grandeurs  were  a  myth — or  at  least  an  hypo- 
thesis deduced  from  very  slender  materials.  The  boys' 
father  and  Aunt  Jane's  late  husband  belonged  to  Midland 
folk  who  for  three  generations  had  been  engaged  in  the 
wholesale  hardware  trade.  There  were,  it  appeared,  many 
of  these  hardware  Churchills,  some  prospering,  some  doing 
little  beyond  keeping  their  heads  above  water. 

"Your  papa,"  said  Aunt  Jane,  "offended  us — but  that's 
an  old  story,  and  far  too  much  was  made  of  it  at  the  time. 
But,  as  no  doubt  mamma  has  told  you,  he  represented  the 
original  house  in  London — and  if  he  didn't  make  a  success 
of  the  London  agency,  I  dare  say  that  was  no  fault  of  his. 
Times  were  beginning  to  change.  We  were  getting  behind 
them." 

Mrs.  Churchill  sat  in  silence  during  all  this  talk,  neither 
endorsing  anything  nor  contradicting  anything ;  but  Edward, 
watching  her,  saw  that  she  stirred  uneasily  and  bit  her  lip 
when  they  came  to  speak  of  boot-paste. 

"No,  I'm  sure  I  wish  we  were  the  'boot-paste  Churchills,'  " 
said  Aunt  Jane.  "No  such  luck !  What  that  firm  must  have 
piled  up!" 

And  at  last  Tom  tackled  the  question  of  the  ducal  leader 
of  the  clan.  Could  Aunt  Jane  trace  the  links  between  us  and 
him? 

Aunt  Jane  cackled.  "Oh,  no  doubt  we're  all  one  lot — if 
you  go  back  far  enough.  Yes,  there's  the  best  authority  for 
that;"  and  she  cackled  most  merrily.  "We  all  come  down 
from  the  same  couple — the  man  and  woman  who  started  the 
biggest  family  on  record.  You  know  who  I  mean." 

"Adam  and  Eve  ?"  said  Tom,  after  a  long  pause. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      19 

"Just  so,"  said  Aunt  Jane. 

Not  even  cadets  of  the  boot-paste — just  nobodies.  Tom, 
returning  to  the  subject  that  night  after  he  and  his  brothers 
had  gone  up  to  bed,  said  he  felt  glad  he-  was  past  his  seven- 
teenth birthday,  and  therefore  strong  enough  to  stand  the 
shock. 

"I  don't  mind  twopence,"  said  Charles;  "but  it  is  a  bit 
of  a  suck  and  a  sell." 

Edward  said  nothing,  and  neither  of  the  other  two  asked 
his  opinion.  He  had  gone  to  the  bedroom  window,  and  he 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  room.  It  was  a  clear  still  night, 
a  touch  of  late  frost  in  the  air ;  and  he  looked  sadly  and  wist- 
fully upward  at  the  fixed  stars — one  of  which  was  shining 
with  a  much  diminished  brightness.  His  mother  had  de- 
ceived him. 


IV 

"MOTHER  dear,  everything  else  you  ever  told  us  is  true, 

isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  every  word — every  smallest  word.    Oh,  Edward. 
And  Mrs.  Churchill  began  to  cry. 

Aunt  Jane  had  gone  back  to  London,  and  Edward  for  the 
first  time  had  spoken  to  anybody  about  that  trifling  dis- 
illusionment. 

"Oh,  oh,  oh!"  And  Mrs.  Churchill  sobbed  hysterically. 
"I  hope  I  may  never  set  eyes  on  her  again — I  don't  want  her 
money,  none  of  it.  I  hate  her — a  horrid,  wicked  old  woman 
to  come  between  my  dearest  son  and  me." 

"Nothing  can  come  between  us,"  said  Edward  wildly. 
"Oh,  mother,  forgive  me  for  what  I  said." 

It  was  terrible  to  him  to  see  that  dear  face  convulsed  with 
grief,  the  venerated  head  bowed  down,  the  gentle  delicate 
fingers  opening  and  shutting  themselves  spasmodically. 
In  a  frenzy  of  self-reproach  he  begged  her  to  forget  his  rash 
and  foolish  words.  But  for  a  while  she  would  not  be  con- 
soled. 

They  were  alone  in  her  room — a  place  that  had  been  to 
him  like  the  storehouse  of  his  earliest,  most  tender  memories, 
and  that  was  now  with  increasing  intelligence  and  imagina- 
tion as  sacred  to  him  as  a  shrine. 

"My  darling — my  darling  mother." 

Presently  they  sat  in  the  cushioned  window  seat  where  she 
used  to  teach  him  his  first  lessons,  and  he  held  her  with  his 
arm  about  her  waist,  kissing  her  wet  eyelids,  imploring 
pardon,  feeling  half  dead  with  love  and  pain. 

The  spring  sunbeams  came  softly  above  their  heads,  shed- 
ding a  delicate  radiance  throughout  the  room,  lighting  up 
solid  objects,  and  seeming  to  touch  with  a  tremulous  rever- 
ence all  pretty,  fragile  things.  He  looked  at  her  writing- 
desk  and  thought  of  how  she  had  sat  there  hour  after  hour 
struggling  to  learn  a  little  Latin  so  as  to  be  able  to  help  him 
in  his  work ;  at  the  curtains  that  hid  the  alcove  and  her  bed : 

20 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      21 

at  the  bedside  table  standing  outside  the  curtains.  The  sight 
of  this  table  used  to  affect  him  with  a  sense  of  awe  and 
mystery.  It  always  carried  a  small  pile  of  her  devotional 
books;  above  the  books,  fixed  to  the  wall,  there  was  a 
crucifix  made  of  ivory  and  black  wood;  and  above  that, 
again,  hung  his  father's  photograph.  All  this  was  quite 
unchanged,  exactly  as  he  had  always  seen  it ;  but  he  noticed, 
by  the  books,  a  green  twig  of  spruce  that  she  had  brought 
away  with  her  from  St.  Alban's  church  on  Palm  Sunday. 

"Edward,  I'll  explain,  so  that  you'll  understand  and  not 
blame  me." 

"Mother!" 

"It  was  silly — but  I  didn't  want  to  practise  any  unworthy 
deception."  She  had  dried  her  eyes  now,  and  was  speaking 
calmly;  only  her  voice  shook,  and  her  hands,  clasping  his, 
were  hot  and  limp.  "It  came  from  my  pride  and  love — in 
the  beginning — from  nothing  else." 

Then  she  told  him  that  her  marriage  was  a  love  match, 
a  runaway  match,  and  that  it  created  an  irrevocable  breach 
with  her  own  family  as  well  as  with  the  Churchill  family. 
The  Churchills  wanted  her  husband  to  marry  somebody  else, 
a  rich  unattractive  hardware  cousin,  and  they  never  forgave 
him  for  not  doing  so ;  while  her  people,  who  were  well-born, 
poor,  old-fashioned,  and  stupidly,  obstinately  narrow- 
minded,  looked  down  on  trade,  said  that  young  Mr.  Churchill 
was  common,  and  sternly  forbade  her  to  encourage  his  ad- 
dresses. She  herself,  brought  up  among  those  who  esteemed 
rank  and  valued  gentle  blood,  could  not  eradicate  all  false 
pride;  and  she  suffered  greatly  because  of  the  contempt 
poured  out  upon  the  man  she  loved.  She  denied  what  her 
parents  said,  she  vowed  that  he  was  not  only  a  gentleman, 
but  a  very  fine  gentleman. 

"And,  Edward,  I  used  to  pray  that,  some  day,  somehow, 
we  should  be  able  to  prove  it — to  show  that  he  was  really 
better  born  than  I  was.  I  loved  him  so — was  so  proud  of 
him  himself,  and  it  broke  my  heart  to  think  of  others  scorn- 
ing him. 

"And,  Edward,"  she  went  on,  with  a  burst  of  enthusiasm, 
"I  know  he  must  have  descended  from  rulers  and  not  from 
slaves.  You  had  but  to  look  at  him.  Come  now — look  for 
yourself ;"  and  they  went  across  the  room,  and  stood  before 


22  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

the  fading  photograph.  "Look  at  his  mouth  and  chin— and 
the  way  his  hair  grew ;  not  rough  and  coarse  in  a  tuft  above 
his  forehead,  as  you  see  in  common  people.  Observe  the 
nose— well-modelled— just  like  a  Greek  statue.  And  his 
hands  were  beautiful— not  common  hands.  In  everything 
he  showed  race — really  and  truly. 

"And  so  I  carried  on  my  fiction — no,  not  fiction,  my 
belief— when  my  father  and  mother  were  gone,  when  all 
were  gone,  and  I  was  left  quite  alone  with  you  three.  You 
all  show  the  same  signs.  I  couldn't  let  you  think — if  I 
could  help  it — that  your  father  was  beneath  anybody  or 
anything.  Do  you  understand? 

"You  are  like  him,  Edward.  You  have  beautiful  hands 
like  his.  And  your  forehead  is  noble."  As  she  spoke  she 
pushed  back  his  hair,  and  brought  her  face  close  to  his.  "You 
are  my  beautiful  son — beautiful  in  mind  and  body.  And  you 
might  be  a  prince — all  the  world  would  proclaim  it.  Kiss 
me,  and  say  that  you  understand." 

"Yes,  yes — quite." 

Then  they  sat  again  in  the  window.  They  were  happy 
now,  both  of  them,  drawn  nearer  together  than  they  had  ever 
yet  been. 

"I  couldn't  bear  it,  Edward,  if  you  lost  confidence  in  me. 
I'd  rather  you  knew  me  for  just  exactly  what  I  am — so  that 
you  wouldn't  expect  too  much  of  me.  Heavens  knows  I 
have  put  duty  before  pleasure.  I  have  tried  to  be  good." 

"You  are  as  good  as  the  angels." 

"I  have  tried  to  make  myself  stronger  and  stronger,  but 
there  are  weaknesses  in  my  nature.  I  am  weak  in  many 
ways — about  myself — as  weak  as  lots  of  women  I  despise. 
Sometimes  I  long  for  worthless  evanescent  things — praise, 
flattery  even,  the  encouragement  of  other  people's  good 
opinion.  But  all  that  will  soon  be  over.  Soon  I  shall 
scarcely  be  a  woman  at  all — I  shall  be  old  and  ugly,  grey 
and  bloodless " 

"No,  never." 

"Yes.  But  what  does  it  matter — so  that  my  children 
are  contented?  I  shall  live  again  in  their  lives.  .  .  There 
my  boy  must  go  out  now,  and  play  his  games  and  be  joyous 
and  free." 

After  this  day  the  bond  between  mother  and  son  was 


23 

always  growing  in  strength.  It  was  as  though  something 
new  within  him  had  been  born  at  the  sight  of  the  tears  that 
he  himself  had  caused.  Something  had  died  too;  but  that 
which  he  had  gained  was  infinitely  more  precious  than  what 
had  been  taken  away  from  him. 

And  there  were  things  that  he  had  hitherto  been  able  to 
do  with  great  enjoyment  that  he  could  never  do  again.  Before 
this  it  had  seemed  perfectly  natural  that  he  and  his  brothers 
should  leave  her  altogether  to  her  own  devices  while  they 
sought  pleasure  far  away ;  that  she  should  stand  on  a  door- 
step kissing  her  hand  in  farewell,  and  then  vanish  from  one's 
thought,  almost  fade  from  the  zone  of  memory,  during  long 
hours  and  even  whole  days ;  until,  tired  and  hungry,  one  came 
lounging  home  and  she  resumed  existence  in  a  welcoming 
smile.  But  now  he  thought  of  her,  carried  her  image  with 
him,  whether  far  or  near. 

Once,  when  an  unexpected  half-holiday  befell  the  school, 
and  games  were  impossible  by  reason  of  the  flooded  condition 
of  both  playing-fields,  he  started  in  congenial  company  for  a 
long  ramble.  His  party  meant  to  push  far  out  into  the 
country;  the  sun  shone;  all  the  voices  rang  out  loud  and 
clear;  and  there  was  joy  in  walking  fast,  in  looking  at  distant 
horizons,  in  shaking  off  the  insipidity  of  too  familiar  sur- 
roundings. Then  all  at  once,  only  a  mile  out  on  the  western 
road,  his  spirits  suddenly  sank.  He  thought  of  his  mother 
alone  in  the  empty  house.  She  had  declared  that  there  were 
a  lot  of  odds  and  ends  she  wished  to  attend  to,  that  she  would 
be  busy  and  contented,  that  the  time  would  fly ;  nevertheless 
he  could  not  escape  from  the  mental  picture  of  loneliness  and 
sadness.  It  was  spoiling  all  his  pleasure. 

He  gave  some  excuse  for  deserting  the  noisy  band,  and 
hurried  home.  His  mother  uttered  an  exclamation  of  delight 
when,  hot  and  flushed  and  eager,  he  burst  in  upon  her  and 
said  that  he  had  returned  to  take  her  for  a  stroll. 

They  spent  the  whole  afternoon  together,  taking  tea  at  a 
little  shop  in  Abbot's  Lane,  sauntering  on  the  old  walls, 
sitting  on  benches  in  the  public  garden,  talking  with  open 
hearts.  And  he  never  thought  of  his  late  companions  rang- 
ing wide  over  the  hillsides  and  through  the  vales.  He  was  at 
peace  and  felt  no  regrets. 

"But  I  don't  want  to  tie  you  to  my  apron-strings,"  she 


24  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

said,  with  the  utmost  sincerity.  "I  have  always  kept  it 
before  me,  that  as  my  boys  grew  up  I  must  to  a  certain 
extent  lose  them.  All  I  have  hoped  is  that  none  of  you  would 
desire  to  leave  me  absolutely — to  put  seas  and  continents 
between  us — to  go  right  to  the  other  side  of  the  world." 

And  Edward  said  that  he  would  never  do  that,  whatever 
happened.  If  they  could  not  always  live  under  the  same  roof, 
at  least  he  would  never  go  far  away.  He  would  stay  within 
reach.  "I  swear  it,  mother.  I  swear  it,  as  a  vow." 

"Ah,  Edward,  my  altruist." 

"No,"  he  said  emphatically,  "it  is  not  altruism — it  is 
selfishness.  I  could  not  be  happy  otherwise." 

And,  not  for  the  first  time,  she  sounded  him  this  afternoon 
about  his  ideas  in  regard  to  the  future.  Had  he  any  inclina- 
tion to  do  what  his  brothers  had  decided  upon  doing  ? 

"Mr.  Jennings  says  he  sees  in  you  many  qualities  that 
suggest  the  Church  as  perhaps  the  profession  that  would 
best  suit  you." 

"Mr.  Jennings  doesn't  really  know  me.  Mother,  I  don't 
know  myself.  Sometimes  I  think —  Oh,  a  man  ought  to 
be  very  good  to  be  a  priest.  I  could  not  trust  myself  to  say — 
I'm  too  young  to  know  myself." 

She  expressed  approval  of  these  words.  They  were  so 
wise.  One  must,  of  course,  wait  until  one  felt  quite  sure. 
Nothing  could  be  more  dreadful  than  to  make  a  mistake 
about  so  sacred  a  step. 

"Because  it  is  for  all  time,  Edward.  Once  a  priest  always 
a  priest." 

They  had  come  along  the  path  upon  the  wall  and  were 
entering  the  outer  precincts  of  the  cathedral.  The  sun  was 
down  now,  and  all  about  them  the  greyness  of  dusk  spread 
fast.  Vague  and  tremendous,  the  great  church  loomed  like 
a  cliff  in  front  of  them,  with  jagged  broken  summits  that 
glowed  redly  in  the  last  light  of  the  day. 

"But,  whatever  you  decide,  Edward,  I  shall  approve. 
I  d  never  oppose  your  wish— or  even  try  to  guide  it.  I  place 
a  confidence  in  you  that  I  cannot  in  dear  Tom  or  Charles 
You  understand  me,  as  they  never  did;"  and  she  leaned 
upon  his  arm,  joining  her  hands  about  it,  as  they  walked 
beneath  the  darkness  of  an  arch.  "You  are  more  to  me— 
much  more  than  the  others.  You  know  it,  my  dearest ;  so 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      25 

why  shouldn't  I  confess  it  ?  I  am  just  to  them,  and  always 
will  be — making  no  outward  difference.  I  know  you  would 
be  miserable  if  I  did.  But  God  pours  the  measure  of  love 
into  our  hearts.  It  is  His  measure,  not  ours,  and  we  cannot 
alter  it." 

In  the  lamplight  of  their  home  he  used  to  observe  her 
when  she  fancied  herself  unobserved,  searching  her  face  for 
any  lines  or  wrinkles  that  might  hint  at  age,  thrilling  with 
joy  when  she  looked  young  and  fresh,  feeling  cold  dread 
when  she  looked  weary  and  pale.  He  wished  to  toil  for  her, 
fight  for  her,  die  for  her — if  by  death  he  could  save  her  from 
peril  and  pain.  Even  when  on  his  knees,  praying  to  the  throne 
of  grace,  angry  revolt  rushed  into  his  mind  as  he  remem- 
bered the  shortness  of  this  mortal  life,  the  terrific  edict  that 
spares  neither  the  virtuous  nor  the  wicked.  He  prayed  night 
and  day  that  she  might  be  given  long  years  in  which  he 
could  guard  and  cherish  her,  and  that  when  at  last  she  died 
his  life  might  soon  be  done. 

It  was  a  great  love,  and  yet  few  people  guessed  at  its 
existence,  and  she  herself  never  knew  a  hundredth  part  of  its 
power.  He  could  not  tell  all  of  it  to  her,  and  to  no  one  else 
could  he  even  speak  of  it.  It  made  no  external  change  in 
him ;  at  school  he  was  just  what  he  had  always  been,  working 
hard  enough  to  please  the  masters,  but  not  so  hard  as  to 
offend  the  boys.  He  did  not  shine  at  games,  although  he 
showed  a  sort  of  fitful  ardent  aptitude  in  every  game  they 
played.  He  was  not  anyhow  conspicuous ;  yet  gradually  all 
recognised  that  in  a  progressive,  unobtrusive,  inexplicable 
way  he  had  become  astoundingly  popular.  He  was  the  boy 
that  no  one  spoke  of  and  the  boy  that  every  one  liked. 

If  any  envious  schoolmate,  chancing  to  fathom  his  secret, 
had  said,  "You  fellows  are  deceived  in  this  third  Churchill. 
He  is  nothing  but  a  milksop  and  a  mammy's  darling" — well, 
that  boy  would  have  been  called  a  liar,  a  sneak,  a  dirty  chuff. 

Yet  it  was  a  very  great  love,  although  throughout  the 
dawn  of  adolescence  Edward  Churchill  contrived  to  hold  it 
sacred  and  secret,  a  splendid  mystery  far  down  beneath  the 
surface  of  things.  His  love  for  his  mother  and  his  ever- 
deepening  religious  faith  mingled  and  became  one.  She  was 
his  Madonna — all  that  the  Blessed  Virgin  can  be  to  the  most 
transcendentally  fervid  Catholics. 


V 

Bur  in  spite  of  fervours  of  religious  emotion  that  thus 
were  fed  from  a  dual  source,  he  showed  a  curious  sort  of  re- 
luctance against  becoming  a  full  and  accredited  member  of 
the  Church.  When  contemporaries  were  being  confirmed  he 
obtained  a  year's  postponement,  and  for  a  second  time,  not 
without  difficulty,  his  confirmation  was  delayed. 

He  did  not  feel  ready.  With  this  explanation  Mrs. 
Churchill  succeeded  in  satisfying  herself  and  the  authorities. 
Truly  it  was  not  the  ceremony  of  laying  on  of  hands  that  he 
shrank  from,  but  the  rite  that  must  follow  it.  Lying  awake 
at  night  he  used  to  think  of  our  Lord's  last  supper,  seeing  in 
imagination  the  actual  feast,  hearing  the  wonderful  words 
that  instituted  for  all  time  that  shadow  of  the  reality  which 
was  to  bind  men  together  in  holy  communion ;  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  this,  the  most  mysterious  and  soul-stirring  of  all 
sacraments,  should  have  been  reserved  as  a  reward  for  tried 
virtue,  and  not  be  lightly  and  presumptuously  approached 
by  the  young  and  untested.  He  felt  that  participation  in  it 
should  be  the  end  of  one's  youth  and  the  beginning  of  a  life- 
long enterprise;  and  some  voice  of  instinct  seemed  to  warn 
him,  to  try  to  appal  him,  as  though  saying  in  a  distorted  echo 
of  his  mother's  words :  "It  is  once  and  always.  Keep  your 
liberty  of  choice  as  long  as  you  can.  You  are  still  free,  but 
when  the  consecrated  cup  is  held  towards  you — in  the  mo- 
ment when  your  lips  touch  the  red  shadow  of  His  blood — 
your  freedom  will  be  gone  for  ever." 

One  saint's  day  in  mid-term,  a  certain  newly-appointed 
suffragan-bishop  came  to  the  school  chapel,  and  there 
preached  on  "The  Inner  Life."  He  at  once  secured  attention 
by  his  informal  method,  and  when  presently  the  coughing 
of  Jarvis  and  another  boy  interrupted  the  sermon,  he  al- 
together captivated  his  audience  with  a  remark  about  cough 
lozenges  being  cheap  and  easily  procurable.  All  then  lis- 
tened; but  Edward  Churchill,  listening  with  the  rest,  could 
scarcely  believe  his.  ears.  For  it  was  as  though  this  man  had 

26 


THE  MIRROR  AND,  THE  LAMP 

been  sent  to  preach  to  him  alone  and  to  answer  half  his 
secret  thoughts. 

The  preacher  told  him  that  every  one  is  apparently  offered 
the  choice  of  two  lives,  either  of  which  he  may  live — the 
inner  life  or  the  outer  life ;  but  that  eventually,  in  old  age, 
we  find  that  only  one  of  these  lives  is  possible — the  inner 
life. 

"That  is  a  simple  fact,"  he  said;  "with  nothing  about 
it  that  need  frighten  or  even  worry  us.  The  dwelling-place 
wherein  we  all  must  dwell,  when  our  wanderings  are  over, 
when  we  have  exhausted  our  physical  energy  and  can  no 
longer  strive  and  fight  or  love  or  hate  as  we  used  to  do,  is 
our  own  mind.  There  is  the  palace  or  the  hovel  in  which 
we  are  to  finish  our  days.  And  the  queston  that  I  am  going 
to  ask  you,  the  question  of  paramount  importance  that  I 
pray  you  to  ask  yourselves,  is,  What  are  you  going  to  make 
of  this  last  resort,  this  place  to  which  you  will  be  forced  to 
withdraw  sooner  or  later?  You  can  make  of  it  what  you 
will;  but  you  must  begin  the  making  now.  It  can  truly  be 
a  palace,  a  glorious,  noble  home  where  you  may  sit  enthroned 
as  a  king,  and  look  through  crystal-clear  windows  at  floods 
of  heavenly  light ;  or  it  can  be  a  black  and  dismal  dungeon, 
windowless,  airless,  foul.  There  are  the  two  extremes. 
Which  do  you  choose?  Boys  of  St.  Martyr's,  I  mean  to  ham- 
mer this  question  at  you.  I  mean  to  rub  it  into  you — as  I 
believe  you  would  elegantly  express  it.  This  is  your  real 
choice.  The  other  choice  is  only  apparent — not  real.  Your 
real  choice  and  freedom  lies  in  what  you  are  going  to  make 
of  the  minds  that  God  has  given  you." 

And  then,  after  speaking  with  great  earnestness,  he  re- 
sumed his  genial  chatty  tone,  and  told  the  boys  how  they 
were  to  set  about  improving  their  minds  without  an  hour's 
delay.  He  gave  them  rudimentary  notions  of  psychology, 
quoted  natural  philosophers,  and  gossiped  and  almost  chaffed 
about  metaphysical  speculation  and  all  the  time  Edward 
Churchill  was  thinking:  "This  is  true.  .  .  .  This  is  solid. 
.  .  .  This  is  based  on  unchanging  laws.  .  .  .  These  are  things 
that  have  confused  me,  and  now  I  begin  to  understand  them." 

Then  the  preacher  again  used  for  the  human  mind  that 
image  of  a  place  which  one  could  build  oneself.  He  said  that 
one  should  visit  it  frequently,  inspect  it  carefully,  see  for 


28 

oneself  that  the  building  process  was  going  on  all  right.  He 
said  that,  unlike  houses  made  by  hands,  it  should  always  be 
comfortable  and  dwellable  throughout  its  course  of  construc- 
tion. And  it  should  be  used  as  a  church  too:  the  con- 
venient and  accessible  place  into  which  one  can  go  at  any 
moment  for  rest  and  peace. 

He  said  that  the  saints  and  fathers  habitually  spoke  ot 
"prayer  and  meditation,"  linking  the  two  words  together  as 
if  they  symbolised  things  of  almost  equal  value ;  but  in  the 
hurry  and  bustle  of  modern  life  there  seemed  only  time  for 
prayer,  and  people  were  tempted  to  ignore  the  necessity  of 
meditation  also.  He  told  the  boys  to  let  no  day  pass  without 
meditation.  "Retire  into  yourselves,  if  only  for  five  minutes, 
and  just  think  quietly." 

Then  he  wound  up  with  "a  really  jolly  bit"  about  good 
resolutions ;  and  the  way  people  make  them  on  New  Year's 
Day  and  break  them  before  Twelfth  Night.  "We  all  do  it," 
he  said,  beaming  down  on  the  rows  and  rows  of  upturned 
faces ;  "and  he  would  be  a  poor-spirited  dull  dog  who  didn't 
do  it.  I  mean  the  making  of  good  resolves,  not  their  break- 
ing, of  course.  We  say  to  ourselves,  'In  this  year  that  begins 
to-day  I  am  going  to  be  a  better,  kinder,  cleverer  boy  than  I 
was  in  the  year  that's  ending  to-day.'  Believe  me,  such 
resolutions  are  worth  making ;  while  their  influence  lasts  they 
effect  something;  and  it's  a  fatal  mistake  to  suppose  that, 
even  when  we  fail  to  continue  acting  up  to  the  fixed  ideal,  we 
are  worse  off  than  if  we  had  never  tried  to  succeed.  Now 
take  this  from  me  as  what  the  sportsmen  call  a  straight  tip. 
Don't  reserve  such  resolutions  for  the  first  of  January.  A 
year  may  begin  on  any  date  in  the  almanac.  Let  a  year 
begin  for  you  every  morning.  Make  every  day  your  New 
Year's  Day.  .  .  ." 

This  sermon  created  a  great  impression  on  the  school. 
There  were  boys  here  and  there  who  distinctly  modified  their 
conduct,  and  wrestled  with  the  thraldom  of  old-established 
habits.  On  all  sides  one  heard  scraps  of  talk  about  the 
Inner  Life,  and  for  some  little  time  "A  happy  new  year  to 
you,"  was  quite  the  fashionable  thing  as  a  morning  saluta- 
tion. 

Curiously  enough,  the  boy  who  seemed  to  be  most  pro- 
foundly affected  was  the  last  one  in  the  world  from  whom 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      29 

you  would  have  anticipated  any  reaction  at  all  from  such 
a  stimulus.  Yet  Jarvis,  to  everybody's  surprise,  stoutly 
declared  that  the  bishop-suffragan  had  revolutionised  his 
entire  view  of  existence. 

Jarvis  was  an  odd,  blinkng,  shambling  boarder,  who  more 
than  once  had  been  publicly  denounced  as  incorrigibly  lazy 
and  faint-hearted  at  his  work,  but  who  nevertheless  had,  to 
his  present  age  of  eighteen,  escaped  the  often  imminent 
catastrophe  of  "supersession."  He  was  a  boy  who  drifted 
on  the  surface  of  things  and  seemed  incapable  of  taking  a 
dive  into  the  deeps  of  thought;  he  loved  tittle-tattle — not 
sneaking,  of  course,  but  foolish  chatter  about  individuals; 
he  read  trashy  novelettes;  and  last,  but  not  least,  gave 
frequent  performances  of  his  famous  graveyard  cough. 

At  request,  he  would  stand  in  King  Henry's  corridor  and 
cough  until  the  old  stone  walls  seemed  to  shake  with  hollow 
thunder.  Once  after  thus  rousing  the  echoes  to  his  ugly 
music,  he  spat  some  blood  upon  the  stone  pavement;  and 
since  then  he  had  pleaded,  "No  encores.  I'll  do  it  with 
pleasure.  But  you  chaps  really  mustn't  encore  me." 

Generally  the  school  tolerated  him  as  an  amiable,  in- 
offensive person  who  had  been  there  for  a  prodigious  long 
time,  but  of  late  sixth  form  boys  had  complained  of  his 
shabby  appearance.  "I  wish,"  they  used  to  say,  "that  Jarvis 
would  treat  himself  to  a  new  suit.  Speak  to  him,  somebody. 
Tell  him  that  he  is  beginning  to  look  like  a  scarecrow,  and 
that  it  won't  do." 

If  spoken  to  by  somebody,  Jarvis  flushed  and  made  ex- 
cuses, referred  vaguely  to  his  aunt  at  Dover,  and  treated 
himself  to  the  graveyard  cough  instead  of  to  the  new  suit. 

Nowadays  he  used  to  come  limping  after  Edward 
Churchill  on  his  way  to  the  gymnasium  or  the  library,  and 
babble  of  the  Inner  Life. 

".  .  .  Yesterday  evening  I  meditated  thirty-seven  minutes 
by  the  clock,  and  all  the  time  I  didn't  know  where  I  was. 
I'd  like  to  do  it  with  you  one  evening,  Churchill.  Give  me  an 
appointment — and  we'll  do  it  one  against  the  other.  .  .  . 
Going  in  there?  Then  good-bye  for  the  present." 

Edward  Churchill  had  been  drawn  to  explore  the  school 
library  in  search  of  books  that  purported  to  describe  the 
workings  of  the  human  mind,  and  his  form-master  had  fur- 


30      THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

nished  him  with  a  short  list  of  philosophers  whom  he  ought 
to  consult. 

"It's  all  antiquated  stuff,  you  know.  So  don't  go  swallow- 
ing it  wholesale.  If  you  ever  want  to  study  psychology,  you 
must  begin  with  physiology.  .  .  .  And  by  the  way,"  said 
Mr.  Sedley,  "don't  be  introspective." 

"No,  sir?" 

"Introspection  is  the  curse  of  the  present  age.  There  is 
too  much  thinking  and  dreaming,  and  not  enough  doing  in 
this  old  England  of  ours.  When  you've  finished  mugging 
over  the  stuff  up  there,  get  the  taste  of  dust  out  of  your 
mouth  by  reading  Carlyle." 

"I  have  read  some  of  him,  sir." 

"Then  read  some  more.  Read  his  Heroes  and  Hero 
Worship.  History  is  made  by  people  who  go  about  and  act, 
not  by  people  who  sit  brooding  and  weighing  consequences, 
and  examining  their  personal  motives.  A  healthy  man 
oughtn't  to  be  conscious  of  his  inside — whether  it's  his 
tummy  or  his  mind." 

Edward  Churchill  had  a  high  respect  for  Mr.  Sedley's 
judgment,  but  this  advice,  coming  so  soon  after  the  bishop's 
sermon,  jarred  strangely. 

He  returned  again  and  again  to  the  library,  and,  stirring 
the  dust  of  rarely-turned  pages,  soon  made  a  startling  dis- 
covery. Just  as  that  sermon  had  seemed  to  be  specially 
addressed  to  him,  so  these  old  books  seemed  to  have  been 
written  solely  for  his  benefit.  There  was,  he  found,  nothing 
new  in  his  thoughts,  nothing  unusual.  Others  had  felt  what 
he  felt,  had  felt  it  more  strongly,  and  had  expressed  it  in  the 
boldest  and  plainest  language.  This  notion  of  the  unreality, 
the  dreamlike  and  intangible  character  of  the  whole  world  in 
which  one  lived,  was  probably  as  old  as  thought  itself.  It 
was  a  consequence  of  primeval  wonder,  when  men  began  to 
recognise  the  marvellous  scope  of  their  mental  powers.  When 
for  the  first  time  men  carried  home  with  them  into  the  dark- 
ness of  their  caves  all  the  sunlit  extent  of  the  hills  and  plains 
they  had  hunted  over  during  the  day,  they  must  have  asked 
themselves,  "Which,  then,  is  real — what  I  have  seen  or  what 
I  am  seeing?"  And  with  the  growth  of  imagination  the 
doubt  would  naturally  increase  instead  of  diminish,  until 
noble  learned  students  solemnly  began  to  deny  the  existence 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      31 

of  all  things  external  to  themselves.  That,  of  course,  was  a 
reductio  ad  absurdum;  and  yet  the  longer  one  brooded  upon 
it  the  less  flagrant  appeared  to  be  the  absurdity. 

He  sat  thinking  deeply,  doing  exactly  what  Mr.  Sedley 
had  declared  to  be  injudicious :  staring  at  the  self-contained 
mystery  with  introspective  eyes,  examining  his  motives, 
saying  to  himself,  "A  life  without  action  is  a  poor  thing,  but 
a  life  without  thought  would  be  nothing  at  all.  One  would 
not  even  know  that  one  had  lived  it.  And  merely  to  perform 
actions  cannot  make  one  happy;  it  is  only  the  afterglow  of 
thought  in  which  they  are  performed  again  that  brings  one 
any  peace  or  joy.  And  the  actions  that  one  performs  must 
not  only  be  good  in  themselves  and  done  for  a  good  purpose 
to  others,  they  must  be  exactly  what  one  wanted  and  longed 
to  do.  Otherwise  the  horrible  restlessness  of  thought  is 
greater  than  if  one  had  refused  to  do  them,  and  had  wilfully 
ignored  one's  duty." 

The  room,  with  its  low  beamed  ceiling  and  narrow  mul- 
lioned  window,  was  dimly  lit,  full  of  silence  and  motionless 
shadow ;  and  when  one  looked  out  through  the  small  latticed 
panes  of  glass  one  saw  the  grass  plot,  a  corner  of  the  head- 
master's house,  and  boys  passing  singly  or  in  groups — all 
very  vivid  and  bright  and  solid.  The  silent  shadowy  room 
seemed  to  symbolise  thought;  and  all  that  one  could  see 
through  the  window  represented  life.  When  one  thought 
intently  a  grey  curtain  came  down  upon  the  leaded  glass, 
and,  though  one  had  not  turned  one's  head,  everything  out- 
side the  window  had  gone. 

Edward  Churchill  said  to  himself,  "Suppose  it  is  true,  and 
not  an  absurdity.  The  inner  or  the  outer  life?  What  if, 
after  all,  there  is  no  outer  life?  Suppose  it  is  nothing  but 
thought." 

For  a  time  now  he  was  always  haunted  by  such  ideas. 
He  could  not  get  away  from  them.  They  came  back,  incon- 
gruously obtruding  themselves,  no  matter  what  he  was  doing 
— even  when  he  was  going  to  the  gymnasium  to  box. 

Mrs.  Churchill  had  wished  that  her  boys  should  receive 
instruction  in  the  art  of  self-defence,  and,  following  his 
brothers,  Edward  duly  became  a  pupil  of  the  illustrious 
Sergeant  Miller.  This  great  man  took  considerable  pains 
with  him,  teaching  him  how  to  use  his  feet,  how  to  put 


32 

"stingo"  into  head  blows  by  aiming  always  to  hit  right 
through  people's  faces  to  the  back  of  their  skulls,  and  give 
"beef"  to  body  blows  by  imagining  that  you  were  inserting 
your  arm  up  to  the  elbow  through  people's  ribs.  He  expressed 
regret  that  Edward's  lessons  were  so  soon  coming  to  an  end. 

Here  was  a  man  of  action  if  you  like,  and  one  might  safely 
say  that  the  better  part  of  all  the  hero-worship  practised  at 
St.  Martyr's  was  evoked  by  Sergeant  Miller.  Little  boys  saw 
in  him  the  perfect  type  of  manhood,  and  he  made  them  at 
once  worship  and  despair.  They  felt  that  as  the  cruel  years 
dragged  by  they  would  be  able  to  shout  without  squeaking, 
to  smoke  without  being  sick ;  they  might  be  heavy  and  hairy 
as  Mr.  Westford  or  Mr.  Jennings ;  they  might  grow  up  into 
masters,  but  never,  never  could  they  grow  up  into  sergeants. 
The  biggest  and  most  athletic  boys  regarded  him  as  their 
dearest  friend;  but  friendship  did  not  lessen  their  venera- 
tion. The  lightest  word  that  fell  from  his  lips  was  precious. 
They  worshipped  his  neck  and  chest,  his  cast-iron  cheeks, 
his  steel-cased  limbs — his  laugh,  his  stare,  his  frown,  even  his 
smell,  that  strange  odour  of  nuts,  and  oil  that  seemed  as  the 
very  essence  of  his  stupendous  strength. 

It  was  an  immense  privilege  to  be  admitted  to  his  room 
behind  the  gym.,  and  to  be  shown  his  museum  of  personal 
trophies  and  treasures — the  box  that  held  his  medals,  the 
photographic  groups  of  officers,  sergeants,  band  of  the  140th 
regiment,  the  presentation  bowl,  the  illuminated  testimonial, 
and  so  on.  Beyond  this  room  there  was  a  sort  of  carpenter's 
shop  with  bench  and  lathe  and  soldering  apparatus,  where  the 
sergeant's  assistant,  Dick,  worked  all  day  fashioning  clubs 
and  single  sticks,  or  binding  and  glueing  leather  grips  round 
dumb-bells ;  and  it  was  pleasant  to  linger  here  also,  watching 
Dick,  and  asking  innumerable  questions  about  the  largest 
dumb-bells  ever  lifted  and  the  lightest  gloves  permissible  in 
the  prize  ring.  Indeed,  the  charm  of  the  gym.  and  its  de- 
pendencies was  very  suave  and  penetrating,  and  Edward 
Churchill,  as  well  as  everybody  else,  surrendered  himself  to 
it  with  satisfaction. 

Naturally,  the  sergeant  could  not  actually  box  with  one. 
He  invited  you  to  hit  him  as  hard  as  you  were  able,  standing 
to  take  his  buffet  like  the  knight  in  Ivanhoe,  and  merely 
flicking  you  with  an  open  hand,  here,  there,  and  everywhere, 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  33 

to  indicate  that  you  were  exposing  yourself.  But  if  he  wished 
to  test  a  pupil's  proficiency,  he  would  call  Dick  from  the  shop 
and  tell  him  to  put  on  his  gloves  and  spar  lightly  with  the 
gentleman.  And  he  called  for  Dick  now,  at  Edward 
Churchill's  last  lesson. 

Dick  untied  his  apron,  wiped  his  sticky  hands  on  a  bit  of 
rag,  and  hurried  to  the  call,  snatching  up  a  pair  of  gloves  as 
he  came. 

A  weedy  lad  of  uncertain  age,  with  large  feet  and  long  thin 
arms,  he  looked  just  as  weak  as  water,  and  yet,  mirabile 
dictu,  his  skill  made  him  more  than  a  match  for  the  biggest 
boy  in  the  school.  No  one  had  ever  seen  the  sergeant  give 
Dick  a  lesson;  he  had  no  practice  except  when  summoned 
thus  from  the  glue-pots ;  but  it  was  as  though  merely  living 
under  the  eye  of  the  sergeant  had  been  sufficient.  Virtue 
and  force  had  been  imparted  to  him  in  the  atmosphere  that 
he  daily  breathed. 

"No  hitting,  you  understand,"  said  the  sergeant  severely. 
"Just  spar." 

"All  right,"  said  Dick,  after  adjusting  with  his  teeth  the 
wrist  elastic  of  his  right  glove.  And  the  sparring  began. 

"Steady,  sir,"  said  the  sergeant.  "Don't  rush.  Take 
your  time.  .  .  .  You  see  how  easy  he  avoids  you.  His  desire 
being  to  let  you  tire  yourself  without  troubling  him.  .  .  . 
Very  good,  Dick.  .  .  .  Very  nice  indeed.  .  .  .  Now  take  a 
breather,  sir." 

Then  they  sparred  again;  and  Edward,  warming  to  the 
exercise,  acquitted  himself  better.  Consciousness  of  sur- 
roundings lessened,  the  circle  of  interest  narrowed  to  a 
smaller  and  smaller  space,  in  another  moment  he  and  Dick 
were  isolated  from  all  the  rest  of  humanity;  and  it  was  as  if 
feet  and  hands  could  think,  and  were  thinking,  as  effectively 
as  brains.  Edward's  mind  and  body  had  but  one  concen- 
trated wish :  to  do  what  ages  ago  was  a  precept  and  now  had 
become  an  instinct — that  is,  to  put  stingo  and  beef  into  the 
gloves. 

"Balance,"  cried  the  sergeant,  "balance.  Damme,  keep 
your  balance." 

But  he  was  speaking  to  Dick  and  Edward  felt  a  suffusion 
of  pleasure  rather  than  an  analysable  thought.  Dick  had 
staggered,  not  he. 


34      THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

When  they  were  commanded  to  stop  for  another  breather, 
the  sergeant  rebuked  Dick,  and  Dick  answered  somewhat 
morosely. 

"Yes,  I  know— but  it's  all  mighty  fine.  I  m  to  play,  and 
he's  to  slog — and  yet  I'm  not  to  break  away  an  inch." 

"Is  he  putting  anything  into  it?"  asked  the  sergeant, 
with  tender  and  solicitous  interest. 

"Course  he  is,"  said  Dick.  "But  I  mustn't  stop  him  for 
fear  of  hurting  him.  ...  All  right,  sir.  Come  on ;"  and  he 
gave  Edward  a  sickly  but  good-natured  smile.  "I'm  paid 
{or  it — so  don't  you  mind.  But  I  shall  expect  a  shilling  in- 
stead of  sixpence  off  you  this  time." 

Then  Edward  insisted  that  every  embargo  should  be 
removed  from  Dick.  Nothing  would  content  him.  but  that 
Dick  should  deal  with  him  on  equal  terms. 

"D'you  mean  it?"  asked  the  sergeant. 

"Yes,  I  do.    I  want  it — just  to  see." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  sergeant  indulgently.  "You  hear, 
Dick?  Let  it  be  give  and  take  till  I  stop  you." 

The  long  bout  that  followed  was  like  drinking  deep  of  a 
fiery  potent  wine — but  a  wine  that  did  one  good,  not  harm. 
Sensation  now  was  certainly  the  same  thing  as  thought ;  or, 
at  least,  all  that  might  be  traced  to  a  lightningly  rapid  cogi- 
tative process  was  the  joy  in  finding  that  one  could  take  all 
that  Dick  could  give.  Each  smack  in  the  face  exhilarated 
and  refreshed  one,  and  of  itself  produced  the  appropriately- 
placed  reply.  To  stagger  was  a  frenzied  agony,  but  to  recover 
was  a  wild  thrill  of  delight.  To  take  and  to  give — to  give 
like  that,  and  like  that.  .  .  . 

"Good.  Very  good."  The  sergeant's  voice  was  a  remote 
sweet  music — a  melody  that  cheered  and  never  disturbed. 
"Good  again.  There,  stop.  That's  enough.  You've  had 
best  part  of  three  minutes." 

They  had  stopped,  and  they  stood  smiling  at  each  other, 
and  breathing  hard  through  distended  nostrils. 

"Give  him  his  bob,  sir,  and  let  him  go.  Get  back  to  your 
work,  Dick." 

Then  he  paid  Edward  a  most  gratifying  complimejnt. 
"You  have  pleased  me,  sir" — and  he  said  it  with  genuine 
cordiality.  "You  have  surprised  and  pleased  me.  Con- 
sidering the  few  opportunities  you  have  been  enabled  to  put 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      35 

at  my  disposal,  you  do  me  true  credit."  These  words  from 
the  sergeant  meant  a  great  deal.  And  he  went  on  to  talk  very 
seriously,  telling  Edward  that  no  one,  of  course,  can  learn 
boxing  in  a  dozen  lessons,  and  that  he  ought  to  have  further 
lessons  whenever  he  could  conveniently  arrange  to  obtain 
them.  "If  not  from  me,  sir,  then  from  some  other  party." 

And  Edward,  standing  there,  proud  and  contented  after 
the  immense  enjoyment  both  of  his  exercise  and  the  com- 
pliment, felt  more  conscious  than  ever  of  the  dreamlike 
unsubstantial  nature  of  the  whole  thing.  The  idea  came  to 
him  in  a  moment,  from  nowhere :  "All  this  is  fading  fast. 
In  a  little  while  the  sergeant  will  be  gone;  not  a  boy  that  I 
know  will  be  here ;  all  will  have  vanished.  It  will  be  another 
generation — and  boys  like  myself  will  go  to  the  library  and 
sit  reading  the  thoughts  of  dead  men.  Only  that  room  will 
be  full  of  life — the  thought  that  alone  has  survived.  Then 
thought  must  be  everything,  and  action  nothing  in  com- 
parison." This  seemed  to  him  a  flash  of  inexorable  logic. 

"Have  I  your  attention,  sir?"  said  the  sergeant,  in  a  tone 
that  betrayed  slightly  offended  dignity.  "I  was  telling  you 
a  street  row  is  not  a  sparring  match.  I  tell  all  my  gentlemen : 
'Tf  you  get  drawn  into  a  wrangle  with  one  of  the  bullying 
fraternity,  your  best  and  p'raps  your  only  chance  is  to  knock 
him  down.  Don't  argue,  don't  waste  time  in  inviting  him 
to  put  his  hands  up — hit  him  as  hard  as  you  can,  before  he 
knows  what's  coming.  Step  back  for  room,  and  knock  him 
down.'  And  in  this  respect  I  b'lieve  there's  a  fallacy  that 
underlies  the  preaching  of  the  left  hand  on  all  occasions. 
Certainly  if — like  us  professional  chaps — your  left  hand 
drive  is  better  than  your  right,  why,  by  all  means  use  it.  But 
is  that  probable  ?  No.  It  stands  to  reason,  with  nine  ordi- 
nary gentlemen  out  of  ten,  the  right  arm  and  the  entire  right 
side  of  the  boy  is  more  strongly  developed  than  the  other. 
Then  I  say  to  you,  as  I  would  to  any  other  ordinary  gentle- 
man  " 

And  the  sergeant  went  on  talking  very  seriously  indeed. 


VI 

ALL  at  once  the  school  was  shaken  by  a  terrible  and  scan- 
dalous affair.  Jarvis,  who  had  left  at  the  spring  half-term, 
was  seen  acting  as  an  assistant  at  the  glass  and  china  shop  in 
Mitre  Street.  He  wore  a  black  apron  and  stood  outside  the 
shop  dusting  the  common  earthenware  that  was  exposed  for 
sale  on  the  pavement ;  or  he  swept  straw  away  with  a  broom ; 
or  he  helped  to  unload  packing-cases.  He  had  been  seen 
doing  these  things. 

Evidently  his  sense  of  shame  and  degradation  was  very 
great,  for  he  looked  up  and  down  the  street,  blinking  his 
eyes,  and  peering  timorously;  and  when  one  passed,  he 
flushed,  turned  his  head  away,  and  shambled  into  the  shop. 
But  the  horror  of  the  St.  Martyr's  boys  was  greater  than 
Jarvis's  shame.  They  said  it  was  a  disgrace  to  the  school. 
Such  things  probably  happened  often  enough  to  the  other 
two  schools  in  the  town,  but  never  before  had  the  prestige 
and  reputation  of  St.  Martyr's  suffered  thus. 

Nothing  else  was  talked  of.  Scarcely  a  word  of  pity  for 
Jarvis  himself  was  uttered,  because,  although  the  boys  no 
doubt  were  sorry  for  him,  they  were  sorrier  for  themselves. 
And,  moreover,  the  thing  was  so  abnormal  that  it  removed 
itself  from  all  recognised  categories  of  form,  conduct,  and 
sympathetic  feeling.  Thus  small  boys  frequented  Mitre 
Street  merely  to  stare  at  Jarvis  in  fascinated  awe,  and  large 
boys,  walking  by  the  shop,  no  more  thought  of  greeting 
Jarvis  than  he  thought  of  greeting  them. 

Edward  Churchill  could  not  stand  the  painfulness  of  all 
this.  Jarvis's  black  apron  and  dusting  brush  had  formed  a 
mental  picture  of  misery  that  interfered  with  his  sleep ;  and 
nevertheless  he  was  aware  of  the  instinctive  shirking  and 
shrinking,  the  resistance  of  immediate  inclination,  the  dead 
weight  of  adverse  public  opinion  that  had  to  be  overcome  on 
the  day  when  he  went  down  Mitre  Street  and  talked  to  Jarvis 
outside  the  shop.  It  was  difficult  even  then,  and  Jarvis  did 
not  make  it  easier.  He  kept  flushing  and  coughing;  but  at 

36 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      37 

last  he  agreed  to  the  arrangement  that  they  should  spend 
next  Saturday  afternoon  together. 

They  met  accordingly  when  Saturday  came  and  slunk  out 
of  the  town,  over  the  meadows  and  far  away  from  all  other 
boys.  Jarvis  led,  and  by  the  time  they  had  gone  a  couple  of 
miles  he  was  tired. 

"Let's  cross  the  railway,"  he  said,  "and  find  somewhere 
sheltered  where  we  can  sit  a  bit." 

There  was  a  level  crossing  close  to  them,  and  a  footbridge 
two  or  three  hundred  yards  farther  up  the  line. 

"Let's  make  for  the  bridge,"  said  Jarvis;  and  they 
accordingly  did  so. 

"Now  let's  stop  a  minute,"  he  said,  when  they  were  on 
top  of  the  bridge,  and  he  looked  up  and  down  the  line.  "No 
train  coming — so  we  can't  treat  ourselves  to  a  nerve- 
shocker." 

The  bridge  was  well  known  and  highly  esteemed  by  St. 
Marytr  boys  for  two  reasons:  first,  because  the  story  ran 
that  it  had  been  erected  after  three  haymakers  had  met 
their  death  one  night  at  the  level  crossing,  and  secondly, 
because  it  afforded  a  pleasurable  test  of  the  steadiness  of 
one's  nerves. 

When  you  stood  upon  it  and  watched  an  approaching 
train,  you  had,  just  at  the  last  moment,  an  extraordinarily 
powerful  illusion  that  the  engine  was  too  big  to  get  through 
and  that  you  and  the  whole  bridge  were  going  to  be  smashed 
into  smithereens.  Really  it  was  a  remarkable  illusion ;  and 
little  boys,  treating  themselves  to  the  nerve-shocker,  had 
been  known  to  crouch  and  emit  a  squeal  of  terror  as  the  white 
bath  of  steam  enveloped  them  and  the  thunder  of  the  iron 
mass  swept  beneath  their  feet. 

"Here,"  said  Jarvis  presently,  "let's  rest  our  bones  here." 

A  March  wind  was  blowing  in  a  cold  bright  sky,  but  its 
nip  was  not  felt  under  the  cliff  of  the  chalk  quarry  into  which 
Jarvis  conducted  his  companion ;  and  here,  sitting  on  a  pile 
of  timber  props,  they  had  a  long  talk. 

"Churchill,  I  love  you  for  this." 

'Tor  what,  Jarvis  old  fellow?" 

"For  doing  what  you've  done  to-day.  But  don't  do  it 
again." 

"Why  not?" 


38      THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

"It's  no  use.  It  only  upsets  me — makes  things  harder  to 
bear,"  and  Jarvis  began  to  cough. 

"Jarvis!"  Edward  Churchill  laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm, 
and  kept  it  there  till  he  ceased  coughing. 

"You  see,"  said  Jarvis,  "I  always  knew  that  something 
like  this  was  hanging  over  me.  Father  and  mother  dead — 
and  only  my  aunt  to  look  to.  She  always  put  it  before  me 
that  the  advantages  of  a  good  education  were  all  she  could 
promise,  and  I  must  therefore  work  hard  at  school  so  as  to 
make  my  way  in  the  world  afterwards." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  work,  Jarvis  ?" 

"I  don't  know.    I  ought  to  have." 

Then,  talking  in  just  the  same  fussy  hurried  way  that 
used  to  be  habitual  to  him  when  he  gossiped  about  the  captain 
of  the  cricket  eleven  or  the  matron's  sailor  cousin,  he  told 
Edward  Churchill  all  that  could  possibly  be  told  about  him- 
self from  childhood  onwards. 

"But  I  couldn't  act  in  harmony  with  the  facts  of  my  true 
position,"  he  said,  when  he  had  reached  the  present  stage  of 
his  life  history.  "I  seemed  to  think  that  school  would  go 
on  for  ever — and  no  one  more  surprised  than  myself  at  its 
ending.  Then  when  the  blow  fell,  and  Aunt  said  she'd 
settled  with  Wilson's  to  start  me  there  on  the  Monday  morn- 
ing, I  made  up  my  mind  there  was  only  one  way  out  for  me. 
Yes,  Churchill,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  commit  suicide." 

"Jarvis,  you  can't  really  mean  what  you're  saying." 

"On  my  word  of  honour  as  a  gentlemen — "  and  Jarvis 
laughed  and  coughed.  "As  a  gentleman!  That's  funny. 
How  the  old  words  slip  out  unawares.  Rum  word  for  me 
to  use  nowadays.  But  I  do  assure  you,  Churchill,  I  did 
really  and  truly  mean  to  do  it." 

"But  you  don't  mean  it  any  longer?" 

"No.  I  soon  abandoned  the  intention." 

"Jarvis — dear  old  fellow — it  would  have  been  a  very 
wicked  and  cowardly  act." 

"Yes,  I  see  that  now ;  but  I  didn't  see  it  at  first.  I  thought 
I'd  come  out  here  after  dark  and  do  it  on  the  line  near  the 
bridge.  That's  why  I  chose  this  direction  for  our  walk.  I 
wanted  to  have  a  look." 

And  then,  in  the  same  tone,  without  any  increase  of  earn- 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      39 

estness  or  solemnity,  he  said  that  he  had  been  saved  from 
suicide  by  religious  meditation  and  thoughts  of  Christ. 

"It  came  while  I  was  asleep,  Churchill.  No  dream  that  I 
could  remember,  but  a  sort  of  message." 

"What  was  the  message,  Jarvis?" 

"  'I  carried  my  cross,  and  you  must  carry  yours.'  An'  I 
mean  to  do  it.  Perhaps  it  won't  be  for  long.  I'm  not  strong 
— never  was.  There's  something  queer  with  my  right  hip, 
as  well  as  the  ankle.  And,  you  know,  my  chest !  My  famous 
graveyard  cough.  It  tears  me  to  pieces  at  night  some- 
times;" and  he  smiled.  "You  bet,  the  two  fellows  who 
sleep  in  the  same  room  with  me  don't  trouble  me  for 
encores." 

"You'll  let  me  come  and  see  you  pretty  often,  Jarvis  ?" 

"No.     But  thank  you  all  the  same." 

"Let  me  come  once  in  a  way." 

"No,"  said  Jarvis.  "But,  Churchill,  what  a  brick  you 
are!  No  wonder  fellows  are  fond  of  you.  Of  course  I'd 
like  to  see  you — only  it's  not  a  bit  of  good."  And  he  added 
that  soon  he  would  leave  St.  Dunstan's  altogether.  He  was 
merely  learning  the  trade  in  Mitre  Street,  and  after  that  he 
was  going  to  a  shop  at  Sittingbourne,  a  branch  of  the  same 
establishment.  "So  you'd  best  leave  me  alone.  You  see, 
it's  no  use  my  hankering  after  you  chaps.  If  I  live,  I  must 
settle  down  to  the  new  level — the  common  beggars  who've 
never  had  a  chance  of  learning  Latin  or  Greek.  Common ! 
After  all,  aren't  we  all  one  brotherhood  ?  And  if  you  don't 
like  your  company,  you  can  always  retire  into  yourself. 
That's  what  I  do  half  the  time  I'm  on  duty." 

They  were  silent  as  they  walked  back  to  the  town,  and 
just  before  they  reached  the  western  gate  Jarvis  insisted 
upon  saying  good-bye. 

"Yes,  I'd  sooner  go  on  by  myself  now." 

"Do  let  me  see  you  to  your  door,  Jarvis." 

"No.  Many  thanks,  Churchill.  I  shan't  forget  you,  you 
know." 

"And  I  shan't  forget  you  either." 

"Good-bye." 

It  was  really  good-bye,  because  they  never  spoke  to  each 


40  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

other  again.  By  Easter  Jarvis  had  disappeared,  and  the 
school  scandal  being  over,  no  one  talked  of  him  any  more. 

Edward  Churchill  had  thought  of  him  frequently,  and  had 
written  to  him  several  times,  but  without  receiving  an 
answer.  Indeed,  perhaps  it  was  something  in  his  thoughts 
about  Jarvis  that  laid  the  train  of  other  thoughts  and  made 
him  now  as  eager  for  his  confirmation  as  he  had  previously 
been  anxious  to  delay  it. 

Together,  then,  with  twelve  other  boys  from  St.  Martyr's 
and  innumerable  boys  from  the  town,  he  duly  renewed  the 
solemn  promise  and  vow  that  had  been  made  for  him  at  his 
baptism,  answering  audibly  "I  do"  at  the  proper  moment, 
and  thinking  throughout  the  very  long  ceremony,  "All  this 
is  but  a  preparation  for  what  will  now  happen  to  me  in  three 
days.  This  is  nothing:  that  is  all." 

His  mother  was  kneeling  and  praying  among  the  other 
mothers,  and  he  would  have  liked  to  spend  the  rest  of  the 
day  with  her,  but  the  newly-confirmed  were  enjoined  to  keep 
together  in  a  kind  of  sacred  good-fellowship  until  the  evening 
came. 


VII 

AT  first  gradually,  and  then  with  dreadful  swiftness, 
changes  came  into  the  quiet  home  life  of  Mrs.  Churchill  and 
her  sons.  Tom  Churchill  was  nineteen  now,  and  it  was  more 
than  time  for  him  to  begin  his  studies  at  the  Theological 
College;  but  one  night  after  supper,  without  preliminary 
warning,  he  told  his  mother  that  he  did  not  think  he  was 
suited  for  the  Church.  He  felt  acute  longings  for  a  career  of 
adventure,  and,  as  she  couldn't  afford  to  make  him  a  soldier, 
he  fancied  he  had  better  go  out  to  the  Colonies. 

Poor  Mrs.  Churchill  was  thunderstruck.  "What  has  put 
this  into  your  head?"  she  asked.  "You  were  so  sure  of 
yourself.  It  is  some  bad  influence." 

Tom  did  not  answer. 

But  he  shocked  Charles,  and  utterly  disgusted  Edward, 
by  the  explanation  he  gave  to  them  when  Mrs.  Churchill's 
pale  sad  face  was  no  longer  there,  to  check  his  tongue. 

"What  could  I  say  to  her  without  offending  her  ?"  he  asked 
bluntly.  "For  of  course  this  upset — if  she  chooses  to  make 
it  an  upset — is  her  fault,  not  mine." 

"How  dare  you  speak  of  her  like  that?"  said  Edward 
hotly. 

"Don't  you  try  to  teach  me  manners,"  said  Tom.  "Dash 
your  impudence,  who  do  you  think  you  are?" 

"If  it's  anything  against  the  mater,"  said  Charles,  with 
righteous  indignation,  "I  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder  with 
Edward." 

Then  Tom  laughed  in  good-humoured  contempt.  "Look 
here,  my  dear  innocent  babes,  I  know  my  duty  to  the 
mater  just  as  well  as  you  do,  and  I  am  just  as  fond  of 
her  as  either  of  you.  But  I  have  reached  years  of  discre- 
tion, and  things  that  are  still  dark  to  you  have  become 
painfully  clear  to  me." 

And  he  went  on  to  say  that  it  was  his  mother  and  not  he 
who  had  chosen  the  Church  as  his  profession.  Any  man  of 
the  world  would  have  seen  with  half  an  eye  that  he  did  not 

41 


42 

show  the  slightest  fitness  for  the  Church.  He  himself  would 
have  seen  it,  if  he  hadn't  been  rendered  almost  blind,  deaf, 
and  dumb  by  the  dear  mater's  unceasing  "pi"  talk.  Before 
he  had  begun  to  understand  what  was  what,  the  mater  had 
got  to  work  "pumping  religion"  into  him.  She  never 
stopped  doing  it.  Bless  her  heart,  she  couldn't  help  doing 
so ;  it  was  her  nature. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  with  the  same  horrible  bluntness, 
"there  never  was  anybody  quite  so  much  stuffed  up  with 
the  Church  as  she  is.  I  admire  her  for  it — only  so  far  as  I 
am  concerned,  well,  my  case  is :  You  can  take  a  horse  to  the 
water,  but  you  can't  always  make  him  drink." 

Then  there  were  some  warm  passages  between  him  and  the 
other  two;  but  he  put  forward  an  argument  that  carried 
weight.  He  said  that  he  had  a  right  to  speak  openly  and  it 
was  their  duty  to  listen  to  anything  he  had  to  say.  He  was 
their  senior,  he  was  the  eldest  son. 

"We'll  listen,"  said  Edward,  "so  long  as  you  don't  speak 
disrespectfully  of  our  mother." 

"Who  wants  to  speak  disrespectfully  of  her?  Not  I. 
God  bless  her.  I  know  her  only  thought  has  been  to  do 
what's  best  for  us.  But  one  can't  get  away  from  facts. 
With  the  best  intentions  in  the  world,  the  dear  mater  has 
been  trying  for  I  don't  know  how  many  years  to  turn  us 
into  the  three  largest  Al  copper-plated  prigs  that  the  universe 
has  ever  contained." 

"The  mater  loathes  priggishness." 

"Does  she?"  said  Tom  drily. 

This  was  terrible  to  Edward.  That  Tom  should  renounce 
all  hope  of  entering  the  Church  if  he  did  not  feel  good 
enough  for  a  priestly  life  was  without  doubt  the  right  thing 
to  do ;  but  that  he  should  speak  thus  of  his  mother  was  unfor- 
givable. Here,  then,  was  the  brutal  conclusion  of  that  beau- 
tiful legend.  In  the  fullness  of  time,  one  of  the  weak  little 
children  had  become  strong,  big,  hardy,  able  to  begin  to 
repay;  and  this  is  how  he  talked  of  the  protector  of  his 
weakness. 

A  week  or  two  passed,  and  Tom  formulated  proposals. 
A  St.  Martyr's  boy  called  Venables,  the  son  of  a  New  Zea- 
land farmer,  was  now  returning  to  the  Antipodes,  and  Tom 
would  like  to  go  with  him. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      43 

Mrs.  Churchill  refused  to  hear  of  it.  She  said,  "Would 
you  put  the  whole  world  between  us,  Tom?" 

"Oh,  it's  nothing  nowadays,"  said  Tom  cheerfully.  "Why, 
look  at  Venables — two  years  younger  than  me,  and  he's  been 
there  and  back  three  times  already.  If  I  make  money,  you 
can  all  come  out  for  your  summer  holiday." 

"I  will  never  consent,"  said  Mrs.  Churchill.  "When  you 
are  of  age,  you  will  be  your  own  master ;  but  till  then  you 
cannot  be  so  cruel,  so  unfilial  as  to  defy  my  authority." 

In  fact,  she  felt  that  her  authority  had  ceased  to  exist; 
and  this  was  what  others  told  her.  She  went  about  asking 
advice  from  everybody — the  headmaster,  the  form  masters, 
the  vicar  of  St.  Alban's,  and  Mr.  Barrett. 

Mr.  Barrett,  the  auctioneer,  was  not  a  person  that  Edward 
would  have  wished  his  mother  to  introduce  into  these  most 
intimate  troubles  and  perplexities.  Truly,  any  snobbish- 
ness that  perhaps  once  flourished  in  a  childish  mind  had 
long  since  died.  Had  it  at  all  survived  to  a  later  period,  the 
episode  of  Jarvis  would  have  been  a  grand  and  final  uproot- 
ing of  this  noxious  weed  from  the  mental  garden.  Edward 
did  not  therefore  object  to  Mr.  Barrett  because  of  any  caste 
prejudices,  but  because  the  man  himself  seemed  quite 
unworthy  of  Mrs.  Churchill's  countenance  and  favour. 

It  was  especially  distasteful  to  see  him  ensconced  in  a 
large  rocking-chair  that  had  belonged  to  the  late  Mr. 
Churchill,  a  chair  that  the  boys  had  been  accustomed  to 
consider  as  an  almost  sacred  piece  of  furniture,  so  hallowed 
was  it  by  sentimental  memories. 

"Don't  go  away,  Edward,"  said  Mrs.  Churchill.  He  had 
opened  the  drawing-room  door,  and,  at  the  unwelcome  sight 
of  Mr.  Barrett,  was  about  to  close  the  door  again. 

"Mr.  Barrett  takes  your  view,  Edward — that  it  is  much 
better  all  this  should  happen  now  than  later,  and  that  I 
must  not  be  angry  with  poor  Tom." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Barrett,  "I  tell  your  dear  mamma  these 
little  accidents  will  happen  in  the  best  regulated  families;" 
and,  joining  his  fat  finger  tips  together,  he  uttered  a  string  of 
the  tritest  possible  platitudes.  "That  is  my  advice  to  your 
dear  mamma,"  he  concluded.  "We  can't  any  of  us  afford 
to  see  her  wearing  herself  to  a  shadow  with  the  annoyance  of 
it.  No,  no.  That  wouldn't  do,"  and  he  smiled,  and  nodded 


44  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAME 

his  head  "We  also  have  to  remember/'  and  he  ceased 
smiling  and  turned  up  his  eyes:  "The  ways  of  Him  who 
preordains  these  small  rubs  and  discomfitures  are  always 
inscrutable,  and  we  may  therefore  hope  that  everything  will 
turn  out  for  the  best  in  the  long  run." 

Whatever  one  thought  of  Mr.  Barrett,  and  however  much 
one  disliked  the  manner  in  which  his  advice  was  tendered, 
its  matter  was  no  doubt  wise  enough.  In  substance  it  was 
what  every  one  said,  and  Edward  among  the  rest.  Very 
little  reflection  had  shown  him  his  clear  and  obvious  duty. 
He  must,  by  making  open  rebellion  appear  something  quite 
natural  to  the  ordinary  course  of  events,  save  his  mother 
from  grief  and  sorrow.  An  actual  quarrel  between  her  and 
Tom  must  be  avoided  at  all  costs. 

The  quarrel,  however,  came. 

For  Tom  presently  absented  himself  for  a  day  or  two 
without  leave,  merely  sending  a  message  to  say  that  business 
affairs  had  called  him  to  London.  When  he  returned, 
although  he  spoke  in  what  purported  to  be  an  apologetic 
tone,  he  unfortunately  gave  one  an  impression  of  being  in 
fact  almost  truculently  triumphant.  Acting  on  what  he  con- 
sidered to  be  a  brilliant  idea,  he  had  hunted  up  their  funny 
old  Aunt  Jane,  and  she  had  consented  to  act  as  capitalist 
at  this  crisis  of  his  affairs.  In  other  words,  she  would  pro- 
vide money  for  sufficient  outfit  and  pay  his  passage  to  New 
Zealand.  This  arrangement,  Tom  said,  gave  him  great 
pleasure,  because  it  would  relieve  his  mother  from  expense, 
and  she  need  not  worry  about  things  any  more.  Indeed  she 
might  consider  the  whole  thing  as  finally  settled,  because  he 
had  received  a  most  gratifying  letter  from  Venables  senior, 
offering  him  employment  on  a  sheep  farm  immediately  after 
his  arrival.  But  far  from  sharing  the  satisfaction  of  Tom, 
Mrs.  Churchill  was  bitterly  wounded  by  what  he  had  done. 
It  cut  her  to  the  quick  to  think  that  he  had  appealed  for 
assistance  to  anybody  but  herself ;  that  he  should  have  done 
this  without  her  permission,  and,  above  all,  that  he  should 
have  made  the  unauthorised  appeal  to  Aunt  Jane.  Since 
that  visit  to  the  Rose  Hotel  years  ago,  there  had  been  no 
further  intercourse  between  the  Churchills  and  their  aunt. 
Auntie  had  indeed  made  further  overtures  of  good  will,  but 
Mrs.  Churchill,  actuated  by  pride  that  was  perhaps  not 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      45 

logically  defensible,  had  discouraged  them,  and  now  for  a 
long  time  there  had  been  silence. 

With  flashing  eyes  and  blazing  cheeks,  she  told  Tom  that 
she  would  never  pardon  such  an  act  of  treachery;  that 
henceforth  he  might  do  what  he  pleased;  that  it  did  not 
matter  to  her  whether  he  went  or  stayed,  because  she  felt 
that  she  had  already  lost  the  son  whom  she  had  loved  and 
trusted.  And,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she 
banged  a  door  instead  of  closing  it  quietly  behind  her. 

Tom  looked  very  sheepish  at  the  sound  of  this  domestic 
thunder,  but  he  presently  whistled  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  said,  "Of  course  she  doesn't  mean  it.  She'll 
come  round  before  I  go.  But  now,  as  the  fat  seems  to  be  in 
the  fire,  the  sooner  I  go  the  better." 

Later  on  he  asked  Charles  to  tell  him,  as  brother  to  brother, 
whether  he  thought  that  there  had  really  been  such  mon- 
strous gilt  in  "biting  the  ear  of  old  Janie."  To  which 
question  Charles  replied  guardedly  that  he  really  did  not 
like  to  pronounce  an  opinion,  but  that  he  honestly  felt  that 
Tom  was  behaving  very  badly,  and  sacrificing  every  one's 
feelings  to  his  own  whims  and  fancies.  The  ardour  of  Tom 
seemed  slightly  damped  by  this  reply,  but  presently  rallying, 
he  said  it  was  all  a  storm  in  a  teacup,  and  that  he  thought  the 
world  had  gone  mad  to  make  such  a  fuss  about  nothing ;  he 
added  that  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  give  both  Charles  and 
Edward  a  faithful  report  of  his  visit  to  Aunt  Jane,  as  it 
might  be  useful  to  them  for  their  future  guidance. 

"Between  you  and  me  and  the  post,"  he  said,  "the  old 
lady  didn't  welcome  me,  and  I  had  to  return  to  the  charge 
again  and  again  before  I  could  screw  her  up  to  parting  point. 
You  never  saw  such  a  rummy  house  or  such  a  queer  way  of 
going  on.  Heaps  of  pictures  and  furniture  and  all  that,  but 
the  whole  place  looked  beastly  dirty.  I  saw  at  least  half  a 
dozen  cats,  and  she  told  me  that  since  her  dog  died  she  had 
taken  to  cats,  but  they  could  never  make  up  to  her  for  the 
loss  of  Fluffy-face.  Her  maid — not  the  one  she  brought 
here — seemed  to  boss  the  whole  show,  and  to  have  the  old 
lady  completely  under  her  thumb.  Anyhow,  I  persuaded 
her  at  last  to  do  the  handsome,  and  she  wrote  a  cheque  while 
the  maid  was  out  of  the  room,  and  told  me  to  put  it  in  my 
pocket  and  say  nothing  about  it.  She  said,  too,"  and  Tom 


46      THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

laughed  cheerily,  "that  it  was  all  I  need  ever  expect  from 
her;  that  none  of  us  had  any  claim  upon  her;  that  all  her 
money  was  her  very  own,  and  that  she  could  do  what  she 
liked  with  it.  I  tell  you  this,"  he  said,  "for  what  it's  worth. 
I  don't  know  whether  you  or  Charles  have  ever  built  castles 
in  the  air,  but  I  often  used  to  think  myself  that  when  the 
old  dame  turned  up  her  toes,  something  might  come  our 

way." 

In  the  days  that  followed,  home  ceased  to  be  home.  Tom 
was  busily  occupied  in  his  preparations,  and  Mrs.  Churchill 
rigorously  ignored  him.  She  refused  to  listen  to  any  account 
of  his  proceedings.  At  meal-time  she  would  talk  to  him  only 
on  indifferent  subjects,  and  in  the  cold  manner  and  tone  of  a 
reserved  and  unbending  stranger. 

But  of  course  Tom  had  diagnosed  the  situation  correctly. 
She  did  not  really  mean  it.  On  the  last  evening  that  he  was 
to  spend  under  the  maternal  roof  her  resolve  broke  down ; 
she  wept  upon  his  shoulder,  clinging  to  him.  and  calling  him 
her  firstborn,  begging  that  they  might  part  as  friends,  assur- 
ing him  that  she  only  desired  his  happiness,  and  promising 
to  pray  for  him  night  after  night  while  he  was  crossing 
the  waste  of  waters. 

Next  morning  early  she  and  his  brothers  went  to  the  rail- 
way station  to  see  him  off.  After  he  and  his  friend,  young 
Venables,  had  got  into  their  compartment  in  the  Dover 
train,  there  were  more  tears  and  clinging  during  the  pause 
before  the  wheels  moved  and  the  train  began  to  roll  away. 
Mrs.  Churchill,  supporting  herself  on  Edward's  arm,  and 
still  sobbing,  waited  till  the  train  vanished  from,  sight. 
Charles  stood  a  few  paces  from  them,  and  slowly  and 
solemnly  waved  his  pocket  handkerchief.  He  still  seemed  to 
be  inexpressibly  shocked  by  the  whole  of  this  affair. 

Tom  had  gone,  and  for  two  months  there  was  comparative 
peace. 

Then  Charles,  who  had  recently  been  growing  moodier  and 
moodier,  pushed  his  plate  away  from  him  at  the  supper  table, 
and  spoke  explosively. 

"Tom  was  right.  Tom  was  right  all  through.  And 
what's  more,  I'm  not  a  bit  better  suited  to  be  a  sky-pilot 
than  he  was." 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      47 

Mrs.  Churchill  rose  from  her  chair  with  such  haste  that  it 
fell  over.  Her  lips  trembled,  and  she  became  so  white  that 
Edward  sprang  to  her  side,  believing  that  she  was  about  to 
faint. 

"Charles,"  she  gasped,  "what  do  you  mean  by  such 
blasphemy  ?" 

"I  used  a  wrong  word,"  cried  Charles  excitedly.  "I  in- 
tended to  say  clergyman,  and  I  said  the  other  by  accident. 
But,  mother,  the  fact  remains.  As  Tom  said,  one  can't  get 
away  from  facts.  It  would  be  madness — it  would  be  a  crime 
for  me  to  go  into  the  Church.  I'm  not  good — far  from  it. 
I  should  be  a  slimy  hypocrite  if  I  pretended  otherwise.  I 
should  be  a  rotter  of  the  deepest  dye  if  I  went  on  with  the 
'pi'  programme  any  longer." 

After  this  the  trouble  began  all  o/ver  again,  and  Charles 
caused  more  anguish  than  had  been  caused  by  Tom.  Tom, 
at  least,  had  definite  proposals  to  submit;  whereas  Charles 
did  not  know  what  he  wanted  to  do,  beyond  not  wanting 
to  be  a  clergyman.  For  the  second  time  Edward  acted  as 
buffer,  struggled  to  make  rough  things  smooth,  pleaded  for 
the  rebel  and  sheltered  the  deposed  ruler.  But  to  Mrs. 
Churchill  it  seemed  like  the  solid  work  of  her  life  going  to 
water  before  her  eyes.  It  was  monstrous  and  unbelievable — 
as  though  a  smiling  fertile  landscape  had  been  devastated  by 
a  whirlwind,  as  though  all  the  pleasant  tranquil  hillsides 
had  changed  to  roaring  volcanoes,  as  though  evil  suffocating 
fires  had  burst  forth  from  fields  of  daisies  and  cowslips. 

The  headmaster  of  St.  Martyr's,  being  again  solicited  to 
give  his  advice,  told  her  that  only  one  thing  was  certain  to 
his  mind — Charles  must  leave  the  school.  He  had  suddenly 
developed  unsatisfactory  habits;  he  was  becoming  a  bad 
example  to  others ;  he  was  "out  of  hand,"  and  it  would  be 
wise  to  remove  him  before  he  committed  some  flagrant 
enormity. 

"But  what  then — what  am  I  to  do  next?"  asked  Mrs. 
Churchill.  "Can  you  not  help  me  with  suggestions?  You 
have  such  great  knowledge — and  I  am  only  an  ignorant 
woman." 

The  Head,  however,  was  empty  of  practical  hints.  Nor 
did  he  for  a  moment  appear  to  think  that  there  was  anything 
unusual  or  surprising  in  his  confession  that  a  young  gentle- 


48      THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

man  who  had  enjoyed  his  training  for  a  considerable  num- 
ber of  years  might  finally  turn  out  rather  badly. 

"Possibly,"  he  said,  "a  course  of  strong  physical  labour — 
such  as  may  be  obtained  in,  ah,  an  engineer's  works,  or,  ah, 
one  of  these  experimental  farms  one  reads  of — would  dis- 
sipate your  son's  sloth  and  stimulate  his  more  healthful 
energies." 

While  gravely  escorting  Mrs.  Churchill  to  his  front  door, 
he  spoke  with  high  approval  of  Edward,  no  doubt  feeling 
glad  to  pay  a  compliment  after  giving  voice  to  censure. 

"In  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Jennings — and  I  may  say  also  in 
my  own  opinion,  so  far  as  I  have  had  a  chance  of  judging — 
your  third  son  exhibits  very  promising  mental  gifts.  His 
essays,  especially,  indicate,  ah,  high  imagination,  and  a  great 
propriety  of  language.  He  is  painstaking  and  orderly.  If 
I  may  say  so,  he  strikes  me  as  obviously  being  more  the 
material  out  of  which  clergymen  are  made  than  either  of 
the  other  two." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Churchill,  sighing. 

"Had  you  also  thought  of  the  Church  for  him?" 

"Yes,  constantly — always." 

"And  he  himself?" 

"He  thinks  of  it— but  that  is  all,  so  far." 

Charles  then  ceased  to  be  a  St.  Martyr's  boy.  He  strolled 
about  the  town  in  a  perpetual  holiday,  smoked  a  meerschaum 
pipe,  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  barmaid  at  the  Crosier 
saloon,  and  became  the  bosom  friend  of  the  marker  at  Kent's 
Billiard  Rooms.  The  vicar  of  St.  Alban's  told  his  mother 
that  she  should  not  allow  him  to  stay  out  so  late  at  night, 
and  Mr.  Barrett  told  her  he  had  been  seen  talking  to  some 
very  undesirable  companions  in  the  lounge  of  the  music- 
hall.  Lastly,  she  told  herself  that  his  manner  of  fixedly 
regarding  Maria's  niece  was  not  quite  nice. 

Maria,  their  still  loyal  and  faithful  servant,  growing  no 
younger  with  the  passing  years,  had  come  to  need  some  slight 
assistance  in  the  household  drudgery,  and  this  young  relative 
had  been  introduced  on  probation.  She  was  a  black-haired, 
red-cheeked,  untidy  girl,  very  avid  for  evenings  out,  and 
inclined  to  be  sulky  to  her  mistress  as  well  as  impudent  to 
her  aunt.  Mrs.  Churchill  had  already  decided  that  somehow 
without  wounding  Maria's  feelings,  she  must  be  sent  back  to 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      49 

her  parents;  and  she  was  more  sure  than  ever  when  she 
observed  Charles's  idle  eyes  pertinaciously  following  her. 

Alas,  neither  Maria's  nor  anybody's  else  feelings  could  be 
spared. 

Mrs.  Churchill,  entering  her  rarely-used  drawing-room  at 
dusk,  found  Charles  in  the  big  swing  chair  with  Maria's  niece 
on  his  knee.  They  were  gently  rocking  the  chair  and  whis- 
pering to  each  other  dreamily,  as  though  they  had  already 
rocked  themselves  to  a  kind  of  beatific  waking  trance  that 
might  now  at  any  moment  change  to  sleep. 

"Charles!"  said  Mrs.  Churchill. 

Charles,  roused  from  his  state  of  oblivion,  made  frantic 
efforts  to  get  rid  of  his  burden  and  bring  the  chair  to  a  stand- 
still ;  and  the  girl,  disengaging  herself  without  haste,  put  a 
careless  hand  to  her  tumbled  black  hair,  looked  impudent, 
and  slipped  away  downstairs  to  tell  Aunt  Maria  that  she  was 
passionately  fond  of  the  young  master  and  would  marry  him 
to-morrow  if  he  asked  her. 

She  left  for  home  the  same  evening.  And  three  or  four 
days  afterwards  Charles  went  to  London  en  route  for  Bir- 
mingham, in  order  to  begin  his  studies  as  an  electrical 
engineer  in  the  workshops  of  a  highly  esteemed  and  go-ahead 
firm. 

It  was  Mr.  Barrett — to  whom  Mrs.  Churchill  had  turned 
in  her  utter  despair — who  discovered  this  opening  and 
negotiated  all  the  arrangements  for  the  reception  of  the  pupil, 
the  payment  of  the  premium,  and  everything  else. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  could  have  done  without  you/'  said 
Mrs.  Churchill  gratefully. 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  Mr.  Barrett.  "There's  nothing 
I  wouldn't  do  for  you,  if  it  was  in  my  power." 


VIII 

EDWARD  and  his  mother  were  alone  now.  A  delicious  quiet 
filled  their  home,  and  the  only  trouble  was  occasional  scarcity 
of  money. 

Tom,  sheep-farming  in  New  Zealand,  wrote  long  letters 
of  which  the  unvaried  gist  was :  This  is  a  wonderful  country ; 
it  affords  great  chances  for  capitalists,  but  is  rough  for 
working  men,  and  unfortunately  life  is  very  expensive.  Mrs. 
Churchill  was  sending  him  as  an  allowance  exactly  what  he 
would  have  cost  at  home,  and  he  never  asked  for  rr  ^re ;  but 
each  letter  was  a  long  rambling  hint  that  he  would  1  K:C  some 
more. 

Charles,  too,  was  a  drain  upon  his  mother's  slender  re- 
sources, costing  much  more  than  one  had  hoped.  He  did  not 
get  on  well  with  the  Birmingham  firm,  and  another  premium 
was  required  to  establish  him  at  Manchester.  Then  he 
moved  to  Edinburgh.  From  Edinburgh  he  launched  unusu- 
ally heavy  demands;  and  Mrs.  Churchill,  revolting,  told 
Edward,  "It  isn't  fair  to  you,  or  to  me  either.  It  is  like 
blackmail."  The  end  of  the  debate,  however,  was  always 
the  same :  on  Edward's  advice,  she  sent  the  money.  She  and 
he  were  happy  together,  and  perhaps  she  secretly  thought 
that,  if  the  absent  ones  were  blackmailers,  it  was  worth  pay- 
ing to  be  rid  of  them.  Edward  reminded  her  always  of  their 
sterling  virtues;  but  truly,  though  thinking  of  them  with 
tenderness,  he  felt  that  they  had  become  strangers.  They 
had  themselves  wilfully  broken  the  legend  of  love. 

The  most  inopportune  claim  made  by  Charles  was  when 
he  found  it  necessary  to  visit  the  electrical  works  of  Lyons 
and  Paris ;  but  once  again  the  money  was  sent  to  him — the 
money  that  should  have  taken  Mrs.  Churchill  and  Edward 
for  a  long  summer  holiday  at  a  farmhouse  in  Cornwall. 

It  did  not  matter.  They  were  so  happy  together,  any- 
where. They  told  each  other  that  they  did  not  need  change 
of  air.  St.  Dunstan's  was  sufficiently  near  the  sea.  They 
went  out  for  days  in  the  country,  ate  their  luncheon  on  the 

50 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      51 

grass,  had  tea  at  pretty  little  roadside  cottages;  and  the 
people  of  St.  Dunstan's  who  saw  them  coming  home  of  an 
evening  said  they  were  more  like  sweethearts  than  mother 
and  son. 

So  the  years  passed  for  Edward,  with  a  happiness  only 
disturbed  by  self-questionings,  until  he  came  to  be  nineteen 
years  of  age. 

For  the  last  time  he  had  attended  the  Martyr's  Feast  as 
a  member  of  the  school.  His  boyhood  was  over,  but  as  yet 
all  that  makes  up  the  life  of  men  remained  uncertain. 

One  winter's  evening,  not  long  after  the  Celebration  of  the 
Feast,  he  persuaded  his  mother  to  come  to  the  service  at  the 
cathedral  instead  of  going  to  her  favourite  St.  Alban's.  She 
went  with  him  readily  enough,  and  to  have  her  by  his  side 
added  sweetness  to  the  music  and  softness  to  the  lamps. 

Yet  presently,  when  all  rose  to  sing  the  Magnificat,  he 
forgot  that  she  was  there,  and  it  was  as  if  he  stood  quite 
alone. 

"My  soul  doth  magnify  the  Lord,  and  my  spirit  hath 
rejoiced  in  God  my  Saviour." 

He  was  thinking ;  but  the  glory  of  the  song,  the  swell  from 
the  great  organ,  the  clustered  lights,  the  grey  columns  that 
lifted  themselves  out  of  shadow  and  hid  their  heads  in  dark- 
ness, the  height  and  vastness  of  this  noble  fane,  its  antiquity 
and  its  strength — all  these  things  seemed  to  have  their  part 
as  causes  of  the  thrilling  emotion  that  accompanied  his 
thoughts. 

It  had  been  twilight  when  they  came  in,  and  the  whole 
fabric  of  carved  and  cut  stone  looked  like  a  rich  sepia  draw- 
ing of  a  church,  with  the  painted  windows  faintly  tinted  by 
the  external  light  and  giving  one  an  impression  of  ghostliness 
and  mystery,  while  monuments  at  a  distance  gleamed 
whitely  and  seemed  to  whisper  of  the  dead.  Now  rapidly  the 
twilight  deepened ;  night  began  to  flood  the  farther  parts  of 
the  church;  the  ghostly  windows  faded,  the  white  tombs 
vanished,  great  walls  of  shadow  advanced  until  the  worship- 
pers seemed  to  be  in  a  little  church  within  the  great  one. 
Here,  in  the  transept  and  choir,  where  the  service  was  being 
held,  one  was  conscious  every  moment  of  an  increasing 


52      THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

brightness;  colours  glowing  vividly  beneath  the  circular 
chandeliers,  and  the  rows  of  small  lights  on  the  choristers' 
desks  flashed  and  sparkled  in  front  of  the  boys'  faces,  deep 
linen  collars,  and  red  neckbands. 

Soon  the  song  was  over  and  Edward  Churchill  knelt,  not 
listening  to  the  well-known  words,  but  lost  in  meditation. 

The  inner  and  the  outer  life.  An  existence  crowded  with 
incessant  and  meaningless  action  would  make  him  the  most 
miserable  of  human  beings — he  was,  of  course,  certain  of 
that.  He  was  sure  of  himself  also  to  this  extent :  he  would 
infallibly  forfeit  real  happiness  if  he  merely  strove  for  the 
exaltation  that  comes  from  individual  success.  It  would 
be  nothing  to  him ;  for  instance,  to  be  a  great  soldier  who  led 
armies  to  conquest  and  added  whole  continents  to  his  native 
land,  unless  he  knew  that  he  had  been  fighting  for  an  altru- 
istic cause.  He  thought  of  all  the  prizes  that  the  world  can 
ever  offer  to  what  are  commonly  called  men  of  action,  and 
they  seemed  to  him  worse  than  dust  and  ashes  when  com- 
pared with  the  peace  of  mind  that  is  sometimes  gained  by 
humbly  obliterating  oneself  for  the  good  of  others. 

And  yet  action  is  inexorably  ordained.  That  marvellous 
inward  stream  of  imagination,  memory,  hope,  fear,  frets 
and  rages  against  every  barrier  that  shuts  it  from  a  seeming 
issue  into  the  great  ocean  of  material  facts.  And  the  neces- 
sity of  action  is  constant.  Quiet  thoughts  whose  aim  is 
merely  quiet  change  to  storms  of  passion  and  revolt.  Quiet 
thoughts  are  rewards,  not  objects;  and  restlessness  can  be 
banished  only  by  fatigue.  We  must  spend  ourselves  in 
action  and  in  thought.  We  must  use  every  fibre  of  bodies, 
exhaust  each  drop  of  blood,  work  till  the  work  kills  us,  or 
we  do  not  live  to  the  full.  That  is  the  second  half  of  the 
great  enigma.  He  had  been  wrong  in  all  his  guesses ;  the 
bishop-suffragan  was  wrong;  those  old  philosophers  were 
wrong.  For  neither  the  inner  life  nor  the  outer  life  is 
One  must  live  both,  or  one  does  not  live  at  all.  The 
lying  man  must  still  fight  life  with  action,  or  he  will  not 
conquer  death  with  thought. 

And  his  ideas  seemed  in  a  moment  to  crystallise  and 
from  many  facets  one  splendid  gleam  of  truth. 

Christ  offered  the  life  of  mental  peace.  Only  by  follow- 
ing Him  could  one  blend  action  and  thought  in  a  perfect 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  53 

schema  If  on.  a£ted  as  His  faithful  messenger  one  would 
use  all  one's  *  jngth;  one  would  fight  and  yet  rest;  and 
even  in  hour  ,v-hen  the  struggle  was  fiercest,  when  all  that 
the  eye  co.u.r'  see  was  ugly  and  all  that  the  hand  could 
touch  was  \  ^e,  amidst  brutal  violence  and  wanton  sin,  with 
the  whole  external  picture  changed  to  a  huge  kaleidoscope 
of  hell,  the  stream  of  one's  inward  thought  would  flow  deep 
and  still — as  a  river  that  glides  invisible  at  night,  as  a  river 
moving  calmly  through  the  darkness  to  meet  the  light  of 
dawn. 

"Teach  me  to  live,  that  I  may  dread 
The  grave  as  little  as  my  bed ; 
Teach  me  to  die,  that  so  I  may 
Rise  glorious  at  the  awful  day." 

Slow  waves  of  melody  rolled  from  the  great  organ,  rilling 
the  air  with  majesty  and  awe;  the  chorus  of  young  voices 
rose  sweetly  and  clearly;  each  believing  heart  vibrated  in 
the  song  of  praise. 

And  Edward  Churchill  whispered  to  himself,  "This  is  my 
call.  This  is  my  hour.  This  is  all  that  I  have  been  humbly 
waiting  for.  Poor,  weak,  and  vain  as  I  am,  my  service  is 
accepted." 

He  thought  of  the  grandeur  of  Christ,  and  of  His  cour- 
age. He  was  braver  than  all  the  warriors  the  world  has 
ever  seen.  As  highest  possible  commendation  of  the  heroes 
and  war  leaders  of  history,  it  is  said  that  when  enemies  fell 
into  their  power,  they  were  lenient;  sparing  many.  But 
the  whole  human  race  were  His  captives,  and  He  spared 
them  all ;  for  their  sake  He  renounced  the  use  of  His  infi- 
nite power;  and  when  He  might  have  shattered  the  uni- 
verse with  one  word  of  just  anger.  He  accepted  death  and 
torment  at  the  hands  of  those  whom  He  had  come  to  save. 
He  was  the  Great  Captain,  the  Hero  of  Heroes.  What 
other  leader  should  a  brave  man  want  to  follow? 

Throughout  the  final  verse  of  the  hymn,  Mrs.  Churchill 
was  looking  at  her  son  and  admiring  his  profile.  He  stood 
very  erect,  with  head  well  back,  his  lips  shut,  and  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  cross  above  the  altar. 

Then  everybody  once  more  knelt,  and  soon  the  blessing 
was  pronounced.  The  choir  and  the  clergy  trooped  out 


54 

slowly,  through  the  open  screen,  down  the  nave  to  the  west- 
ern door.  Two  stately  vergers  with  lanterns  accompanied 
them;  and,  as  the  glow  of  the  lanterns  passed  on,  the  vast 
nave  seemed  to  spring  into  existence  again,  to  become  a 
magnificent,  a  fabulous  avenue  leading  far  away  into ^ the 
night.  At  a  seemingly  immense  distance  the  surpliced 
group  stopped  to  say  the  last  prayer.  No  words  reached 
one;  it  was  like  an  echo  of  the  blessing.  There  came  a 
faint  burst  of  song,  a  movement  in  which  the  stupendous 
fabric  seemed  to  join;  then  the  lantern  gleams  vanished, 
and  all  was  dark  and  still. 

A  light  covering  of  snow  lay  upon  the  ground,  and  as 
Edward  and  his  mother  walked  along  a  narrow  swept  path 
the  music  of  the  voluntary  followed  them  a  little  way  and 
kept  them  silent. 

Then,  when  they  had  reached  the  streets  and  she  had 
taken  his  arm,  he  told  her  that  he  felt  decided  at  last.  He 
no  longer  doubted  himself.  He  had  heard  the  call. 

Mrs.  Churchill  could  scarcely  speak  for  joy. 

"Oh,  my  son — my  true  son.  Oh,  how  I  have  prayed  for 
this !  You  crown  my  life  with  gladness." 

And  that  night  she  made  their  supper  a  feast;  telling 
old  Maria  that  it  was  a  never-to-be-forgotten  occasion,  that 
hot  dishes  were  to  be  cooked  and  confectionery  purchased, 
that  the  candles  in  the  chimney  sconces  were  to  be  lighted 
as  well  as  all  the  lamps.  She  wore  her  finest  dress,  put  on 
every  one  of  her  poor  little  ornaments,  and  looked  radiant, 
grand,  and  at  least  ten  years  younger  than  before.  She 
treated  Edward  as  though  he  had  been  an  august,  illus- 
trious visitor,  bowing  with  a  smile  as  she  took  his  hand  to 
lead  him  to  the  supper  table,  and  saying  when  he  pro- 
tested, "Do  you  realise  that  before  long  I  shall  be  doing 
more  than  bow?  I  shall  have  to  kneel  while  you  give  me 
your  blessing." 

And  he,  lending  himself  to  her  humour,  ate  the  unusual 
dainties,  drank  wine,  and  talked  lightly,  although,  perhaps 
just  then  a  graver  kind  of  festival  would  have  suited  him 
better. 

But  after  their  meal  they  talked  more  seriously,  and  on 
his  side  with  a  deepening  sense  of  joy.  That  evening  his 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      55 

whole  future  was  mapped  out.  The  difficulty  of  ways  and 
means  governed  all  their  plans,  and,  indeed,  little  choice  of 
detail  seemed  possible.  He  would  be  ordained  without  any 
avoidable  delay,  but  in  the  four  years  that  must  intervene 
he  would  try  to  be  self-supporting.  He  would  teach,  write, 
somehow  earn  some  money;  and,  although  they  might 
necessarily  be  separated  for  short  periods,  he  would  come 
back  here  each  time  that  he  could.  Then  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible they  would  be  united  for  ever.  It  was  a  hard  life 
that  he  traced  so  cheerfully;  seeing  himself  in  imagination 
the  vicar  of  some  overcrowded  London  parish,  who  might 
remain  poor  and  obscure  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  But 
he  and  she  would  be  together,  and  they  would  be  very 
happy. 

"That's  a  promise,  mother,  isn't  it?  You  won't  mind 
leaving  St.  Dunstan's?" 

"No." 

"And  you'll  stay  with  me  always?" 

"Yes,"  and,  smiling,  she  spoke  rather  sadly.  "I'll  stay 
until  you  have  a  wife  to  look  after  you  instead  of  a  mother." 

"I  shall  never  marry." 

"Oh,  that  would  be  unnatural.  /  could  not  wish  for  that 
— greedy  as  I  am  for  all  your  love." 

But  he  told  her  that  a  priest  did  not  need  a  wife.  "Priests 
should  be  celibates.  I  have  always  admired  the  Roman  rule 
of  celibacy." 

Mrs.  Churchill  shook  her  head.  "No,  marriage  is  a  holy 
and  beautiful  ordinance.  A  happy  marriage  can  even  raise 
a  priest." 

"Mother,  believe  me.    I  want  no  one  but  you." 

He  had  no  dreams  to-night.  Directly  he  lay  down  in  his 
bed,  where  so  often  the  nights  had  been  more  tiring  than 
the  days,  where  as  a  child  he  had  seen  visions  and  heard 
voices,  where  he  had  felt  the  pain  of  others  so  keenly  that 
it  seemed  his  own,  he  sank  into  deep,  untroubled  sleep. 


IX 

HE  was  roused  next  morning  by  his  mother  knocking  at 
the  door.  The  post  had  brought  her  a  summons  to  London, 
and  she  wanted  him  to  come  with  her.  He  must  dress  and 
get  some  breakfast  at  once,  and  they  would  catch  an  early 
train. 

She  appeared  nervous  and  fluttered,  but  as  she  offered  no 
further  explanation  he  did  not  question  her.  As  they  hur- 
ried to  the  railway  station,  she  told  him  breathlessly  that 
she  had  in  fact  been  much  agitated  by  the  receipt  of  unex- 
pected news.  As  always  happens  on  these  occasions,  they 
had  time  to  spare  at  the  station,  and  while  waiting  on  the 
platform  she  informed  him  that  the  principal  part  of  the 
tidings  related  to  their  Aunt  Jane. 

"Edward,  she  is  dead.  Her  solicitors  have  written  to 
me,  saying  she  died  a  week  ago.  That  is  not  all — but  we 
are  to  go  and  see  them.  Messrs.  Joyce  &  Burdett — in  Gray's 
Inn.  They  speak  of  legacies.  Oh,  I  can't  say  more.  But  I 
hope.  I  hope.  I  am  in  a  fever  to  know  the  truth." 

There  were  other  people  in  their  compartment,  and 
she  was  silent  all  the  way  to  London. 

At  the  solicitors'  offices  they  were  told  that  Mr.  Joyce 
would  see  them  at  once  in  his  own  room,  but  nevertheless 
they  were  kept  waiting  in  an  outer  apartment  for  a  period 
that  to  Mrs.  Churchill  seemed  endless.  Then  at  last,  after 
some  compliments  and  civilities  unendurably  spun  out,  they 
were  seated  in  front  of  Mr.  Joyce's  writing-table  listening 
to  the  words  that  might  change  the  whole  current  of  their 
lives. 

"As  I  had  the  pleasure  of  advising  you,"  said  Mr.  Joyce, 
"the  residue  of  the  property  is  left  in  equal  shares  to  your 
three  sons,  Thomas,  Charles,  and  Edward." 

Mrs.  Churchill  was  trembling  so  that  she  had  difficulty  in 
asking  her  one  great  question.  What  did  this  mean  exactly  ? 
How  much  money  or  how  little  was  coming  to  her  three 
boys?  "Please,  don't  keep  me  in  suspense." 

56 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      57 

Mr.  Joyce,  a  genial  old  fellow,  laughed  good-humouredly. 
"Well,  my  dear  madam,  it  is  not  El  Dorado ;  but  it  is  a  nice, 
comfortable  sum  for  young  gentlemen  beginning  life. 
Roughly,  each  share  should  bring  in  an  income  of  six  hun- 
dred a  year — perhaps  a  little  over." 

And  he  explained  that  the  capital  sum  would  be  handed 
over  to  each  of  the  young  gentlemen  on  attaining  his  ma- 
jority. But  meantime  the  executors  were  empowered  to 
pay  out  income  for  maintenance,  education,  and  advance- 
ment. 

"As  you  know,  Mrs.  Churchill,  your  relative  was  not 
exactly  like  everybody  else.  I  say  it  in  no  disrespect — no, 
certainly  not — but  she  was  odd — especially  of  late.  I  men- 
tion it  merely  for  this  reason.  I  do  not  think  you  need 
apprehend  any  trouble  on  that  scorce — on  the  validity  of 
the  will.  I  thought  you  would  be  glad  to  know  it.  Yes,  I 
think  I  can  safely  assure  you  that  everything  is  in  order." 

And  he  went  on  to  say  that  the  will,  drafted  by  himself, 
had  been  executed  several  years  ago,  and  that  quite  re- 
cently a  codicil  had  been  added. 

"Yes,"  and  he  laughed  again,  "substantial  provision  was 
then  made  for  a  servant,  and  for  the  guardianship  and  ade- 
quate support  of  certain  cats — nine  cats — for  the  remainder 
of  their  days.  I  dare  say  those  cats  may  not  live  as  long  as 
the  testator  hoped — for  the  capital  devoted  to  their  en- 
dowment does  not  return  to  the  estate,  but  passes  to  their 
guardian.  Well,  I  welcomed  that  codicil — for  this  reason. 
From  the  legal  point  of  view,  it  tended  to  strengthen  the 
will.  Do  you  see,  it  not  only  brought  the  will  up-to-date,  it 
also " 

For  a  little  while  neither  Mrs.  Churchill  nor  Edward 
found  it  possible  to  listen  with  attention.  They  were  en- 
tirely engrossed  by  rapid  and  quite  uncontrollable  thoughts. 

Edward's  first  feeling  was  one  of  sorrow — sorrow  for 
the  queer,  kind  old  woman  who  had  died.  He  saw  her  in 
imagination  as  he  had  seen  her  at  the  St.  Dunstan's  hotel, 
jingling  trinkets,  chattering,  fussing,  tripping  on  her  velvet 
dress,  and  fondling  the  little  dog.  She  was  kind  and  gen- 
erous. Why  might  she  not  enjoy  a  little  longer  the  strange, 
confused  dream  that  her  life  had  probably  become?  Then 
immediately  he  was  thinking,  Why  had  she  not  died 


58 

sooner?  If  the  money  had  come  sooner,  Tom  need  not 
have  gone  to  rough  it  as  a  farmer.  Charles,  too — Charles 
could  have  been  started  on  a  prosperous  course.  Tom 
would  come  racing  home  to  claim  his  own — he  was  already 
of  age.  But  it  was  too  late  for  him  to  go  into  the  Army. 
If  the  money  had  come  sooner,  he  and  Charles  could  have 
done  what  they  liked. 

And  then,  swift  and  unintelligible  as  lightning  in  a  cloud- 
less sky,  he  had  a  totally  illogical  thought  about  himself. 
"Has  the  money  come  too  late  for  me  also?  If  I  had 
known  of  it,  I  could  have  done  what  /  liked."  But  imme- 
diately he  recognised  the  folly  of  this  reflection.  "Why  did 
I  think  that?"  he  asked  himself.  "For  I  am  doing  what  I 
like.  The  money  could  have  made  no  difference.  Indeed, 
in  my  case  it  has  come  at  the  very  moment,  the  first  mo- 
ment, I  wanted  it." 

Mrs.  Churchill's  thoughts  were  more  completely  jubi- 
lant. 

"'By  the  way,  which  of  the  three  are  you?" 

Mrs.  Churchill  and  Edward  both  roused  themselves  to 
answer  this  direct  question. 

"The  youngest?    Really?    And  how  old,  may  I  ask?" 

"A  little  over  nineteen." 

"You  surprise  me.  I  should  have  guessed  your  age  as 
more;"  and  Mr.  Joyce  looked  at  Edward  with  a  studious 
and  kindly  interest.  "Yes,  you  look — to  my  eye — consid- 
erably older." 

"He  does,"  said  Mrs.  Churchill,  fondly.  "Everybody  says 
so.  It  is  his  strength  of  character." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  that,"  said  Mr.  Joyce  genially;  "be- 
cause strength  of  character  is  an  uncommonly  useful  thing; 
and,  if  I  may  take  the  liberty  of  speaking  with  frankness, 
you  and  your  brothers  may  need  it  just  now." 

Then  he  offered  Edward  the  wise  advice  that,  as  he  ex- 
plained, he  would  give  to  a  son  of  his  own  if  analogously 
situated. 

"For  your  sakes,  I  am  inclined  to  wish  that  it  had  been 
left  in  trust  for  you — yes,  I  do.  You  see,  the  danger  is 
that  young  men  not  accustomed  to  manage  money  are  apt 
to  fancy  that  six  hundred  a  year  is  inexhaustible.  But  not 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      59 

at  all.  Nothing  of  the  sort.  It  is  not  nearly  enough  to  live 
on  in  idlessness.  But  mark  this" — and  he  became  impres- 
sive. "It  is  a  golden  key  to  almost  any  career  you  please 
to  choose.  That  is  what  you  should  keep  before  you :  This 
will  be  magnificent  odds  in  my  favour — this  lifts  me  above 
the  struggle  that  crushes  the  hearts  out  of  so  many  able 
men.  I  can  work  in  comfort — I  can  afford  to  bide  my 
time,  if  the  work  is  not  immediately  remunerative.  It 
opens  the  world  to  me." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Churchill  fervently.  "That  is  what  I 
felt  at  once." 

"And,"  asked  Mr.  Joyce,  "have  you  as  yet  formed  any 
plans?" 

Edward  replied  that  he  was  going  into  the  Church. 

"Yes,"  said  his  mother,  "he  is  going  into  the  Church." 

"The  Church!"  echoed  Mr.  Joyce.  "Oh.  Well,  as 
you're  still  so  young,  you  have  ample  leisure.  I  should 
not  finally  make  up  my  mind  too  soon." 

"It  is  quite  made  up,"  said  Edward. 

"But  you  may  change  it." 

"That  is  not  likely." 

As  he  said  this,  Edward  had  a  vivid  memory  of  his  bene- 
factress as  she  came  forward  welcoming  them  in  the  hotel 
room.  Then  he  understood  why  he  had  thought  of  her 
again  so  suddenly.  She  also  had  advised  him  to  be  careful 
about  making  up  his  mind.  And  he  had  been  careful.  He 
had  waited  until  he  felt  the  call. 

"Well,  if  it  is  to  be  the  Church,"  continued  Mr.  Joyce, 
"independent  means  is  everything  there  too.  Starting  with 
six  hundred  a  year,  you  ought  to  be  a  bishop  before  you're 
fifty.  I  should  keep  that  before  myself.  I  should  say  reso- 
lutely: With  six  hundred  a  year  to  help  me  along,  if  I 
don't  become  a  bishop — at  the  least — I  shall  have  failed." 

Then  they  talked  a  little  business,  and  after  that  Mr. 
Joyce  bade  them  good-bye. 

"One  last  word,  Mr.  Churchill.  Never,  on  any  pretence, 
touch  your  capital.  Consider  it  as  a  trust — to  pass  on  in- 
tact. Make  it  a  trust  in  your  own  mind,  since  my  late 
client  didn't  do  it  for  you." 

They  walked  away  together  through  the  crowded  streets, 


60  THE  MIRROR  AND1  THE  LAMP 

not  knowing  whither  they  directed  their  steps,  and  not  really 
caring.  The  sun  shone  upon  them:  all  the  world  seemed 
bright  and  gay  and  full  of  hope. 

Mrs.  Churchill  felt  an  almost  irresistible  desire  to  spend 
some  money  at  once,  in  order  to  prove  that  the  wonderful 
change  of  fortune  was  real  and  not  imaginary.  An  hour 
ago  cab  fares  were  matters  of  great  importance ;  now  walk- 
ing instead  of  driving  was  a  whim,  an  eccentricity,  or  an 
amiable  condescension  on  their  part.  Since  the  boys  were 
opulent  personages,  they  would  want  no  money  from  her, 
and  so  she  had  become  as  rich  as  they.  But  it  was  solely 
for  them  that  in  truth  she  rejoiced  and  above  all — oh,  infi- 
nitely above  all — she  rejoiced  for  Edward.  She  kept 
squeezing  his  arm,  and  murmuring.  "Edward,  do  you 
even  now  see  what  it  means  to  you?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  answered  from  time  to  time.  He  was 
asking  himself,  "Why  am  I  so  glad?  Surely  I  ought  to  feel 
that  it  is  nothing  to  me  ?  Why  should  I  be  puffed  up  with 
this  vainglory?" 

In  spite  of  their  affluent  circumstances,  they  had  a  frugal, 
inexpensive  luncheon,  and  they  travelled  back  on  the  rail- 
way, as  they  had  come,  third-class.  But  on  the  return 
journey  they  obtained  a  compartment  to  themselves,  and 
this  was  just  as  satisfactory  as  if  they  had  taken  a  special 
train  and  sat  in  a  richly  upholstered  saloon. 

They  sat  side  by  side,  he  looking  out  of  the  window, 
watching  the  trim  landscape  rush  towards  him  and  drop 
behind,  like  a  thing  that  one  carelessly  uses  a  moment, 
then  throws  away  and  forgets;  and  she  with  her  hands 
clasped  on  his  shoulder,  looking  up  at  his  face,  and  talking 
with  the  almost  passionate  admiration  of  a  silly  girl  for 
the  strong  silent  man  she  loves. 

"My  darling,  I  glory  in  it.  My  dreams  have  come  true. 
In  all  my  rejoicing  yesterday  there  was  just  that  drop  of 
bitterness — what  every  mother  would  feel,  but  no  one  quite 
so  much  as  I.  Do  you  understand?  It  made  my  heart  ache 
— even  while  you  talked  so  bravely — that  you  would  not 
have  what  is  given  to  so  many :  a  grand  and  stately  prepar- 
ation— the  university — foreign  tours.  And  I  thought:  He 
will  be  obliged  to  stint  himself  in  garments,  food,  and  lodg- 
ing; he  will  be  unable  to  pick  and  choose  his  curacies;  he 


[THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  61 

will  always  be  driven  by  necessity  to  take  what  other  men 
leave;"  and  she  raised  herself  to  touch  his  chin  with  her 
lips.  "But  now — now  you  can  have  all.  You  shall  be 
surrounded  with  beautiful  things — the  frame  shall  be 
worthy  of  the  picture.  And  all  things  will  be  easy  for 
you — as  Mr.  Joyce  said.  You  shall  be  a  Prince  of  the 
Church — and  as  a  very,  very  old  woman,  I  will  come  and 
receive  your  blessing  on  the  cathedral  steps.  And  people 
will  say,  'Who  was  it  that  the  Archbishop  spoke  to  so 
gently?'  And  some  one  will  answer,  'It  was  his  mother. 
.  .  .'  Oh,  my  boy — my  own  idolised  boy,  I'm  so  happy ;" 
and  resting  her  forehead  on  her  hands,  she  burst  into 
tears. 

He  kissed  and  soothed  her,  holding  her  close  to  his 
heart,  as  the  train  sped  onward  and  the  river,  the  shipping, 
and  the  castle  of  Rochester  swung  into  view.  She  was  pas- 
sive in  the  delight  of  his  embrace  for  a  little  while,  then 
released  herself  and  sat  silent  by  his  side.  But  it  seemed 
as  if  her  emotion  and  excitement  had  been  flowing  out  of 
her  into  him. 

His  eyes  brightened  and  he  drew  deep  breaths. 

Was  she  right  to  rejoice  so  greatly?  Had  he  been  timid 
and  lacking  in  faith  when  he  fancied  that  his  own  elation 
was  vainglory?  It  seemed  to  him  now,  with  the  echo  of 
her  fond  words  still  sounding  in  his  ears,  that  veritably  this 
money  had  come  to  him  by  divine  design  immediately  upon 
his  vowing  himself  to  Christ.  He  felt  a  thrill  of  immense 
pride.  The  money  implied  that  he  was  going  to  be  used  for 
more  delicate  work  than  he  had  dared  hope.  Not  only  was 
he  chosen,  but  chosen  for  special  purposes.  He  was  not 
merely  to  be  one  of  the  rank  and  file :  he  was  to  be  a  leader. 

And  he,  too,  thought  of  a  splendid  preparation  for  his 
splendid  task.  University  training!  Yes,  he  must  go  to 
Oxford,  and  stay  there  as  long  as  possible.  A  priest  should 
not  be  too  young.  Entire  freedom  from  hurry,  intercourse 
with  polished  intelligences,  the  opportunity  of  studying  at 
one's  ease  men  as  well  as  books — all  this  he  might  enjoy 
without  fear,  because  it  was  appointed. 

His  ambition  widened  every  moment.  That  dream  of 
the  humdrum  toil  of  crowded  parishes  seemed  to  be  gone 
forever;  he  must  fit  himself  for  the  world-arena;  he  must 


62 

learn  to  walk  with  dignity  and  confidence  in  palaces  as 
well  as  in  cottages ;  he  must  make  himself  an  influence  and 
force.  i 

That  was  what  the  money  meant  to  him.  In  this  sense 
it  was  a  trust — a  sacred  trust.  After  his  preparation  he 
could  deal  with  the  money  more  freely.  Even  if  he  used 
much  of  it  for  others,  there  would  always  be  more  than 
enough  left  for  himself. 

And  he  thought  of  a  claim  upon  his  trust  fund  that  must 
be  satisfied  at  once.  For  the  rest  of  the  journey  he  stren- 
uously considered  this  first  claim,  making  arithmetical 
calculations  in  regard  to  incomes.  He  thought,  "Six  hun- 
dred a  year  is  almost  twelve  pounds  a  week.  That  is  pre- 
posterously too  much  for  any  one  man.  It  is  exactly  six 
times  as  much  as  is  necessary.  With  two  pounds  a  week, 
even  a  man  who  was  not  capable  of  work  would  live  in 
comfort  and  ease.  I  myself  should  never  need  more,  for 
myself.  Why,  whole  families  often  have  less,  and  yet  get 
along  all  right.  If  now  I  have  ten  pounds  a  week  instead 
of  twelve  pounds,  I  can  never  know  the  difference."  And 
he  determined  that  he  would  spend  two  pounds  a  week  on 
some  one  else ;  he  would  secure  it  to  that  other  person  abso- 
lutely; as  soon  as  possible  he  would  break  into  his  capital 
to  this  extent. 


NEXT  day,  while  Mrs.  Churchill  was  telling  the  wonder- 
ful news  to  her  friends  and  receiving  their  congratulations, 
Edward  went  over  to  Sittingbourne  to  pay  a  call  at  a  china 
shop. 

Common  and  ugly  as  was  Wilson's  establishment  at  St. 
Dunstan's,  this  Sittingbourne  branch  was  worse — truly  a 
wretched  place,  dark,  stuffy,  with  scarce  space  for  the 
humble  customers  to  move  among  the  piles  of  cheap 
crockery. 

"Can  I  see  Mr.  Jarvis?"  asked  Edward. 

"What  Mr.  Jarvis  ?" 

"An  assistant  here." 

"Oh,  well,"  and  the  shopkeeper  looked  hard  at  Edward. 
"He  was  an  assistant  here.  That's  true  enough.  Were  you 
a  friend  of  his?" 

"Yes,  a  great  friend." 

The  shopkeeper  seemed  to  search  for  appropriate  words 
before  he  said  sympathetically,  "Then,  being  a  great  friend, 
how  is  it  you  don't  know  he's  been  dead  better  part  of  two 
years  ?" 

The  money  had  come  too  late  for  Jarvis. 

Edward  Churchill  stayed  in  Sittingbourne  till  nightfall. 
He  went  to  the  cemetery  where  his  dead  friend  lay  buried, 
but  sought  vainly  for  the  grave.  A  sexton  at  last  showed 
him  the  spot.  There  was  nothing  to  mark  it — not  a  trace 
of  decayed  flowers,  not  a  rusted  strand  of  wire,  to  say 
that  wreaths  and  crosses  had  ever  been  laid  above  the 
sleeping  head. 

"But  it's  here  or  hereabouts,"  said  the  sexton,  "and 
there'll  be  no  difficulty  in  locating  it  to  an  inch.  I've  only 
to  get  the  plan  and  the  number,  you  know.  And  if,  as 
you  say,  you're  wishing  to  put  up  a  monument,  why,  come 
straight  along  with  me  now.  I  don't  know  if  there's  any 
firm  you  regularly  patronise ;  but,  if  not,  can  safely  recom- 

63 


64  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

mend  Banks  in  Station  Road.  See  that  marble  cross?  It 
came  from  Banks's.  You  can  examine  it  as  a  sample  of 
what  they  turn  out.  And  I've  never  heard  their  prices  are 
excessive." 

Edward  Churchill  finished  his  business  with  the  sexton 
and  the  stonemasons,  wandered  about  the  town  making 
many  inquiries,  and  quite  late  succeeded  in  obtaining  an 
interview  with  a  clergyman  who  had  known  Jarvis  well. 
He  could  not  have  gone  home  without  seeing  this  man.  He 
felt  an  imperative  necessity  to  learn  how  Jarvis  died. 

"I  fear  I  have  kept  you  a  long  time,"  said  Mr.  Merrick, 
as  he  entered  the  dull,  cheerless  room  where  his  visitor  had 
been  patiently  waiting  for  nearly  an  hour.  "Please  be 
seated." 

He  was  an  old,  white-haired  man  with  a  thin  face  and 
shaky  hands,  but  directly  Edward  Churchill  heard  his  voice 
he  knew  that  he  was  a  faithful  servant  of  God. 

"Pray  tell  me  how  I  can  serve  you,  Mr.  Churchill." 

Then,  after  saying  that  he  and  Jarvis  had  been,,school 
friends,  Edward  asked  those  questions  to  which,  as  it 
proved,  Mr.  Merrick  was  able  to  give  the  ardently  desired 
answers. 

Mr.  Merrick  had  been  with  Jarvis  several  times  before 
the  end,  and  at  the  end. 

"And  he  received  the  consolation  of  the  Church?" 

"Yes,  I  administered  the  Sacrament  for  the  last  time 
only  a  little  while  before  he  died." 

"And  you  say  you  don't  think  he  suffered  much  physi- 
cally?" 

"I  think  he  suffered  very  little,  scarcely  ajt  all." 

"And  in  his  mind?     He  was  calm — quite  prepared?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"His  faith  never  wavered  ?    He  died  in  full  belief  ?" 

"It  was  a  beautiful  death — perhaps  the  most  beautiful 
death  I  ever  witnessed." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Merrick,"  and  Edward  got  up  from 
his  chair.  "It  is  most  kind  of  you  to  have  let  me  see  you. 
But  I  know  perfectly  well  that  I  need  not  apologise  for 
troubling  you.  I  had  a  great  respect  and  admiration  for 
Jarvis — and  you  will  understand  my  regret.  Truly  I  am 
so  sorry — so  bitterly  sorry  for  him." 


[THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  65 

"Don't  be  sorry,"  said  the  old  man,  shaking  hands  with 
Edward.  "Why  should  you  be  sorry  for  him?  Be  glad — 
be  very  glad." 

As  he  said  this,  his  eyes  glowed  and  his  voice  seemed  to 
strengthen ;  indeed  for  a  moment  his  whole  aspect  changed, 
and  one  thought  instinctively  that  only  a  few  years  ago  he 
had  been  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life,  robust,  vigorous,  able 
to  bear  fatigues  and  hardships.  Next  moment  the  light 
faded  out  of  his  eyes,  and,  as  he  came  shuffling  through 
the  hall  to  the  outer  door,  he  was  a  feeble,  worn-out  old 
man. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Churchill." 

"Good-bye,  sir." 

And  Edward  went  away  thinking,  "Yes,  one  should  re- 
joice rather  than  grieve."  But  nevertheless  sorrow  re- 
mained with  him. 

Thy  will  be  done. 

During  the  fully  occupied  weeks  that  followed  he  ceased 
to  think  of  his  friend  with  such  poignant  regret.  He  and 
his  mother  were  continuously  busy.  Together  they  spent 
nearly  a  fortnight  at  Oxford,  making  all  arrangements  for 
his  collegiate  career.  He  was  to  go  to  a  really  good  col- 
lege, to  have  handsome,  spacious  rooms,  to  buy  books,  fur- 
niture, and  ornaments,  on  a  liberal  scale  of  expenditure. 
Mrs.  Churchill  insisted  upon  all  these  matters,  and  indeed 
took  them  out  of  his  control  entirely. 

And  so  the  time  slipped  by  until  the  day  came  for  him  to 
leave  St.  Dunstan's  and  go  into  residence  at  the  Univer- 
sity. That  morning  he  felt  both  elation  and  sadness.  He 
was  breaking  away  from  his  mother's  home;  he  was  turn- 
ing his  back  on  the  ancient  city  that  had  sheltered  his 
youth.  He  would  return  again  and  again  and  again,  but 
perhaps  St.  Dunstan's  would  never  seem  to  him  quite  the 
same. 

As  he  and  Mrs.  Churchill  drove  to  the  station,  he  looked 
with  loving,  grateful  eyes  at  the  familiar  streets  and  dear 
old  houses.  It  was  a  fine  spring  day,  with  every  open  space 
full  of  strong  light,  and  each  shadow  falling  dark  and  firm. 
The  market  looked  like  a  garden  of  many  colours ;  and  next 
minute  all  the  gaiety,  noise,  and  crowd  had  changed  to  sol- 


66  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

emn  peacefulness,  as  they  passed  beneath  medieval  walls 
and  narrow  barred  windows,  and  heard  a  faint  bell-music 
whisper  in  the  air;  and  never  till  now  had  the  spell  exer- 
cised by  the  whole  place  seemed  so  gently  soothing  and  so 
invincibly  strong. 

Even  at  the  railway  station  he  could  feel  it  lingering, 
holding.  Only  when  he  had  waved  his  last  good-bye,  and 
the  train  was  bearing  him  away  more  swiftly  every  moment, 
could  he  cease  to  feel  it  or  think  of  it. 

But  no,  the  spell  was  not  quite  broken  yet.  Looking  out 
from  his  corner  seat,  he  saw  the  city  once  more.  How  small 
it  appeared  at  this  distance — just  a  patch  of  buildings  in  the 
waste  of  chalky  slope  and  marshy  plain,  with  its  medley  of 
roofs  mysteriously  softened  instead  of  illuminated  by  the 
sunlight,  and  the  three  towers  seeming  to  swim  in  a  golden 
mist. 

"Small  as  it  looks,"  thought  Edward  Churchill,  "it  is 
great  and  must  ever  be  great  to  an  Englishman's  heart.  To 
England,  to  all  the  western  world,  it  is  Christ's  own  metro- 
polis, His  court  and  palace,  the  inviolate  home  that  we 
built  for  Him  with  our  hands." 

And  the  full  force  of  the  spell  was  upon  him  for  a  little 
while,  even  after  the  place  itself  had  vanished. 


XI 

EDWARD  CHURCHILL  passed  five  years  at  Oxford,  and 
throughout  this  time  his  confidence  in  himself  was  increas- 
ing, his  faith  solidifying,  and  his  ambition  becoming  more 
definite.  He  was  young,  strong,  with  almost  perfect  physi- 
cal health,  and  he  believed  that  he  was  authorised  to  enjoy 
to  the  full  every  innocent  pleasure  that  offered  itself — 
that  is,  if  never  for  a  single  hour  he  forgot  the  solemn  char- 
acter of  the  task  for  which  all  this  was  a  preparation.  And 
truly  he  never  did  forget. 

Here  in  the  wider  sphere  of  University  life,  as  in  the 
small  world  of  school,  he  became  popular.  It  was  the  same 
gradual  progress  of  increasing  regard  given  to  him  without 
effort  or  solicitation  on  his  part.  The  dons  liked  him.  The 
college  servants  liked  him.  A  constantly  recruited  army 
of  undergraduates  liked  him. 

Little  by  little  he  grew  to  be  a  personage  of  estab- 
lished position,  a  man  of  many  friends,  who  belonged  to  no 
particular  set,  but  who  passed  freely  through  all  the  in- 
visible barriers  of  social  existence,  by  no  means  a  great 
'varsity  light,  but  a  quiet,  unostentatious  wielder  of  con- 
siderable influence.  He  himself  was  but  very  vaguely 
aware  that  he  exercised  any  influence  at  all;  but  he  was 
quite  conscious  of  the  kindly  feeling  that  so  many  people 
showed  him,  and  he  welcomed  the  obvious  fact  with  de- 
light, thinking,  "This  is  a  good  sign.  The  power  to  win 
friendship  or  trust  is  what  may  prove  of  great  value  when 
I  begin  my  appointed  work." 

He  had  written  in  his  diary,  as  a  guiding  note — > 

"A  priest  should  be  able  to  imagine  all  that  others 
can  feel,  to  be  acquainted  with  all  that  they  can  know, 
to  forgive  all  that  they  can  do." 

More  and  more  surely  he  felt  himself  reserved  for  grand 
and  important  things.  Perhaps — who  knows?— even  his 

67 


68      THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

mother's  dreams  would  come  true.  Everything  at  Oxford 
fostered  the  largeness  of  ambition.  It  was  the  ancient 
storehouse  of  intellectual  force;  every  stone  whispered  of 
ecclesiastical  pomp ;  the  spirit  of  the  place  was  aristocratic. 

During  his  third  year  he  deliberately  abandoned  any 
chance  of  securing  a  high  place  in  the  Honours  List. 

He  felt  the  necessity  of  a  wider  range  of  reading.  He 
studied  biology,  psychology,  natural  science.  A  priest 
should  not  be  afraid  of  "scientific  truths,"  as  they  are  so 
pompously  called.  A  priest  should  know  as  soon  as  possible 
all  that  can  be  said  against  the  real,  living,  imperishable 
truth  that  it  is  his  proud  duty  to  expound  and  maintain. 
To  this  end,  also,  he  read  not  only  all  the  most  famous  at- 
tacks on  the  validity  of  the  historical  evidence  supporting 
the  Christian  faith,  but  the  critical  works  of  avowed 
atheists. 

Nothing  that  he  read  thus  of  set  purpose  moved  him  to 
anything  stronger  than  a  faint  contemptuous  wonder  that 
men  of  powerful  intellect,  men  trained  in  logic,  should  so 
pitifully  fail.  The  whole  arguments  of  the  materialists, 
especially  when  supporting  their  disbelief  in  the  immor- 
tality of  the  soul,  even  in  the  existence  of  the  soul,  struck 
him  as  peculiarly  childish  and  absurd.  Truly  he  felt  sorry 
for  such  people,  saying  in  regard  to  revealed  religion,  "I 
can  accept  nothing  that  you  do  not  prove  to  me.  I  can 
only  advance  in  my  belief  step  by  step,  after  assuring  my- 
self that  at  every  step  I  stand  on  solid  ground;"  and  wil- 
fully— no,  not  wilfully,  but  blindly  and  insanely — ignoring 
the  fact  that  their  entire  life  in  regard  to  matters  other 
than  religion  was  composed  of  thousands  of  unquestioning 
beliefs,  of  acceptances  from  moment  to  moment  of  the  un- 
proved and  the  unprovable. 

Poor  little  people,  who  might  have  been  big,  but  of 
their  own  free  will  choose  to  be  small ;  who,  as  heirs  to  the 
splendid  heritage  of  a  universe,  renounce  their  succession, 
and  say,  "This  glimpse  of  daylight  is  all  I  ask,  this  bit  of 
earth  which  seems  my  birthplace  I  claim  as  my  tomb,  this 
dim  dream  of  trouble  I  hold  and  cherish,  and  cannot 
barter  against  the  unfolding  pageant  of  eternity." 

But  just  as  he  felt  a  sorrowful  contempt  for  the  folly  of 
those  who  try  to  trace  bounds  to  the  infinite  with  a  yard 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      69 

measure  that  is  marked  off  to  the  tiny  scale  of  inductive 
reasoning,  he  was  sometimes  filled  with  admiration  of  their 
patient  research  and  the  ingenious  devices  of  experimental 
investigation.  Above  all,  he  admired  the  courage  of  men 
who  had  devoted  what  they  thought  was  their  all — this 
earthly  life — to  examination  of  the  human  brain.  Failing, 
these  said  that  failure  was  inevitable.  It  is  in  the  nature 
of  things.  Mind,  according  to  them,  is  a  function  of  the 
brain.  But  thought  and  consciousness  must  ever  remain 
inexplicable. 

And  he  thought,  "No,  one  day  we  may  know  that  also. 
But  the  knowledge  will  flash  into  us  from  what  these  men 
call  the  great  void,  and  we  shall  recognise  then,  by  'the 
irrefutable  logic  of  facts,'  that  all  we  have  prized  and  cher- 
ished as  the  best  of  ourselves  is  outside  us  and  not  inside 
us.  Our  brains  are  not  apparatus  that  create  thought,  but 
as  yet  imperfect  instruments  that  impede  thought.  Thought, 
as  we  know  it,  is  a  poor  thing,  yes.  But  the  essence  of 
thought,  the  vital  unchanging  principle  of  our  finite  intelli- 
gences, comes  pouring  through  starlit  immensity  to  fill  us 
with  the  potentialities  of  glory  and  force.  In  that  sense 
there  is  no  end  nor  beginning  to  human  thought." 

All  this  seemed  to  Edward  Churchill  obvious  and  inde- 
structible. The  doubt  of  others  confirmed  his  own  convic- 
tions. And  he  recognised  the  peculiar  strength  and  virtue 
of  faith,  by  the  beam  of  light,  the  bright  dissolving  ray, 
that  he,  a  humble  but  faithful  believer,  could  cast  upon  the 
dark  confusion  that  had  been  left  by  the  strenuous  labours 
of  some  of  the  greatest  minds  of  the  age. 

Although  his  study  of  modern  philosophy  left  him  emo- 
tionally calm,  it  was  the  stimulus  that  set  him  writing.  He 
had  for  a  long  time  been  making  copious  notes,  and  now  he 
attempted,  as  a  regular  exercise,  to  give  expression  to  his 
reflections  or  criticism.  The  guiding  note  in  his  diary  was 
a  quotation  from  a  treatise  on  psychology :  "Be  very  doubt- 
ful of  the  value  of  any  of  your  thoughts  unless  you  can 
express  it  in  explicit  language;"  and,  guided  by  this  severe 
advice,  he  wrestled  resolutely  with  the  vagaries  of  a  too 
exuberant  pen.  Graces  of  diction,  rhythm  of  construction, 
and  style,  were  to  be  of  no  account.  One  must  say  what 
one  had  to  say  simply  and  forcibly:  if  one  couldn't  do  so, 


70  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

the  inference  was  that  one  really  had  nothing  to  say  that 
was  worth  saying. 

Thus  he  wrote  a  series  of  essays  linked  together  with  the 
main  idea  and  purpose  of  utterly  demolishing  all  those  blind 
and  deaf  scientists,  their  specious  arguments  and  faulty 
logic.  He  called  them  Builders  on  Sand,  and  thought  that 
one  day  he  might  publish  a  book  with  this  title,  or  perhaps 
only  use  his  manuscript  materials  for  sermons.  At  any 
rate,  he  had  no  intention  of  publishing  anything  at  present. 
The  writing  was  merely  an  exercise. 

A  pleasant  and  most  engrossing  exercise — the  hours  that 
he  spent  sitting  with  sported  oak,  hammering  hard  at  his 
main  idea,  squeezing  it  till  it  distilled  itself  in  little  rivulets 
of  ink,  were  altogether  happy.  Young  men  would  beat  upon 
the  door,  shout,  and  laugh ;  but  presently  his  eyes  returned 
to  the  paper,  and  soon  he  did  not  hear  a  sound.  Or  when 
he  stood  at  his  window,  manuscript  in  hand,  they  called  up 
to  him.  "Churchill,  you  villain.  You  were  there  all  the 
time.  Come  down."  He  smiled  and  nodded  his  head  to 
them,  for  a  few  moments  saw  them,  joyous  and  frank  and 
kind,  with  sunlight  on  their  faces;  he  noticed  the  peaceful 
beauty  of  the  court,  with  its  mellow  red  buildings,  a  spire 
rising  above  the  further  roofs  and  black  slow-flying  rooks 
in  the  sky — and  then  after  another  moment  he  ceased  to  see 
anything.  That  main  idea  had  resumed  its  dominion;  it 
was  clamouring  to  be  expressed  explicitly. 

In  his  fourth  year  the  writing  habit  had  become  so  strong 
that  he  determined  that  it  was  time  to  break  it.  But,  before 
bidding  adieu  to  the  attractions  of  foolscap  paper,  he  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  of  testing  in  a  practical  manner 
the  value  of  what  he  had  so  far  done.  Taking,  therefore, 
his  notes  as  a  foundation,  he  completed  two  or  three  ar- 
ticles and  sent  them  to  the  editors  of  London  reviews.  To 
his  great  pleasure  one  of  these  contributions  was  imme- 
diately accepted  by  the  editor  of  the  Nineteenth  Century, 
and  in  the  course  of  a  few  months  he  saw  himself  in  print. 
A  further  pleasure  was  given  him  by  the  receipt  of  three 
or  four  letters  from  strangers  who  had  read  his  article  and 
approved  of  the  opinions  that  it  contained.  The  college 
dons  also  talked  about  it,  and  for  a  little  while  he  enjoyed 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      71 

the  gratifying  sensations  of  a  successful  author.  Then, 
just  when  he  was  forgetting  all  about  the  matter,  he  re- 
ceived a  final  and  astounding  letter  from  some  one  to 
whom  he  had  never  spoken,  but  who  yet  was  not  altogether 
a  stranger.  He  could  scarcely  believe  his  eyes  when  he 
opened  the  envelope  and  read  the  address — Lambeth  Palace. 
Those  two  words  made  him  thrill  with  excitement. 

"My  dear  sir,"  the  letter  began,  "I  have  been  very  much 
struck  with  the  arguments  for  toleration  which  you  so  ably 
put  forward  in  your  article,  'Ritual  and  Symbolism'  in  the 
Nineteenth  Century  for  July.  It  has  only  now  been  brought 
to  my  notice,  and  I  take  the  liberty  of  writing  directly  to 
you."  And  his  Grace,  taking  it  for  granted  that  the  writer 
of  the  article  was  a  man  of  considerable  experience  in 
Church  discipline,  went  on  to  recite  some  of  his  own  diffi- 
culties as  head  of  a  not  too  obedient  priesthood. 

Edward  Churchill  replied  to  this  letter,  telling  the  Arch- 
bishop that  he  was  a  St.  Martyr's  boy;  and  in  due  course 
he  received  a  second  letter,  in  which  his  Grace  said  that  he 
would  be  glad  to  make  his  acquaintance  should  Mr. 
Churchill  be  ever  able  to  make  an  opportunity  of  going  as 
far  as  Lambeth. 

Trifling  as  was  this  little  incident,  it  was  accepted  by  Ed- 
ward as  another  omen  of  future  grandeurs.  It  seemed  to 
him  a  wonderful  and  splendid  thing  that  he  should  have 
thus  brought  himself  into  touch  with  the  Primate.  He 
showed  the  letter  to  his  mother  and  to  no  one  else ;  and  to 
her  it  seemed  like  a  definite  promise  of  rapid  advancement. 
As  Edward  folded  and  unfolded  the  treasured  document, 
she  seemed  to  hear  the  delicate  rustle  of  the  lawn  sleeves 
that  he  would  one  day  wear. 

That  year  they  spent  the  Long  Vacation  on  the  Continent, 
and  really  their  tour  was  one  long  day-dream.  Day  after 
day  they  talked  of  the  gracious,  dignified  life  that  they 
would  lead  together,  as  Edward  rose  from  rank  to  rank  in 
the  hierarchy  of  the  Church. 

It  was  rather  a  blow  to  her  when  he  told  her  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  that,  after  all,  that  phase  of  work  in  a  poor 
and  crowded  parish  must  not  be  dropped  out  of  the  scheme 
altogether.  He  considered  it  necessary.  But  now  it  would 
merely  be  a  further  period  of  training — another  opportu- 


72  THE  MIRROR  AND"  THE  LAMP 

nity  of  studying  human  nature — a  period  in  which  he  could 
practise  the  art  of  preaching.  Of  course  he  would  not  stop 
in  humble  or  obscure  surroundings  a  minute  longer  than 
might  be  needed  for  his  higher  purposes.  He  would  go  into 
the  realm  of  cultivated  people  as  soon  as  possible,  and  then 
without  an  hour's  delay  he  would  provide  a  home  for  his 
mother  as  well  as  for  himself. 

More  and  more  she  seemed  to  look  to  him  as  the  well- 
spring  of  all  her  joy.  Indeed,  pour  soul,  she  had  no  other 
source  from  which  she  could  extract  any  comfort.  Her  two 
other  sons  provided  her  with  nothing  but  disappointment 
and  anxiety.  Except  for  Edward,  all  the  money  seemed 
worse  than  useless — a  cause  of  absolute  distress.  Thomas 
Churchill,  instead  of  coming  home,  had  remained  in  Aus- 
tralasia, wandering  about  those  vast  territories,  squander- 
ing his  substance  in  stupid  speculations,  and,  as  she  feared, 
indulging  in  far  from  reputable  amusements.  She  gathered 
from  guarded  statements  in  his  letters  that  he  had  a  female 
companion  with  him  on  these  wanderings,  and  that  if  he 
had  not  already  married  this  person,  he  really  ought  to 
have  done  so.  Charles  Churchill,  without  any  shilly-shally, 
had  made  a  most  imprudent  marriage,  allying  himself  with 
a  music-hall  artist  of  worse  than  doubtful  reputation.  He 
had  said  himself  that,  since  his  mother  could  not  approve 
of  the  marriage,  he  preferred  not  to  introduce  his  wife  to 
the  family  circle. 

Talking  of  these  unhappy  entanglements,  Mrs.  Churchill 
often  told  Edward  that  they  had  made  her  very  desirous  of 
seeing  him  suitably  married  in  due  course.  She  said  that 
when  the  time  came  and  he  found  a  really  nice  good  wife, 
she  would  welcome  her  with  ardent  delight,  not  only  as  a 
daughter,  but  as  a  safeguard  against  the  possibility  of  acci- 
dents. In  fact,  she  harped  on  this  talk  about  his  marriage 
in  a  way  that  became  painful  to  him.  The  idea  coming 
from  her  seemed  strange  and  unnatural.  Were  they  not  all 
in  all  to  each  other?  He  understood  that  his  mother,  in 
talking  thus,  proved  the  depth  and  purity  of  her  unselfish- 
ness, but  somehow  it  jarred  upon  him;  he  could  not  quite 
understand  it. 

"But,  Edward,"  she  said,  "you  will  fall  in  love  one  day. 
It  cannot  be  otherwise ;  love  is  a  divine  law." 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      73 

And  he  thought,  "Yes,  but  not  that  kind  of  love." 
Indeed,  he  had  reached  his  present  age  without  the  faint- 
est awakening  of  those  normal  instincts  that  usually  have 
such  tremendous  power,  in  spite  of  their  vagueness,  during 
adolescence  and  early  manhood.  In  regard  to  the  other 
sex,  his  thoughts  and  his  feelings  remained  almost  exactly 
what  they  had  been  when  he  was  a  boy  of  twelve.  In  those 
days  he  had  admired  little  girls  at  juvenile  parties  for  their 
slenderness  and  grace  and  silky  hair  and  pretty  frocks.  But 
he  had  never  cared  for  dancing  with  them ;  and  in  anything 
like  a  game  they  were  simply  a  nuisance,  by  reason  of  their 
incompetence  and  feebleness.  He  could  not  be  bothered 
with  them.  Considered  merely  from  the  point  of  view  of 
their  weakness,  they  did  arouse  a  sort  of  chivalrous  im- 
pulse— a  dim  idea  that  if,  for  instance,  they  fell  into  water, 
one  would  dive  in  and  rescue  them ;  but  as  soon  as  one  had 
fetched  them  out  and  handed  them  over  to  their  stupid  and 
inattentive  guardians,  one  would  say  "Good  afternoon," 
and  never  see  them  again.  Now,  as  then,  in  spite  of  his 
strong  sense  of  beauty,  the  living  presentment  of  matured 
feminine  charms  filled  him  with  distaste.  Standing  by  his 
mother's  side  in  these  foreign  picture  galleries,  he  could 
admire  and  feel  something  like  reverential  awe  at  the  per- 
fect symmetry,  the  life-like  flesh  tints,  the  sweeping  curves 
of  the  antique  nude,  but  all  such  pleasure  was  entirely  in- 
tellectual; interest  in  the  age  of  the  picture,  thoughts  of 
the  patient  painter  whose  hand  had  grown  cold  and  stiff 
hundreds  of  years  ago,  mingled  with  the  appreciation  of 
a  piece  of  art,  and  perhaps  as  an  essential  factor  in  this 
pleasure  lay  the  fact  that  what  he  gazed  at  was  not  alive 
and  real,  but  merely  a  coloured  shadow  upon  a  wall.  If  he 
turned  from  the  lifeless  picture  to  some  young  and  good- 
looking  woman  at  a  few  yards  distance,  the  sight  of  this 
live  modern  nymph  immediately  evoked  a  faint  revulsion 
of  thought.  The  rounded  solid  forms  of  life,  draped  in 
costly  fashionable  garments,  were  vulgar,  disenchanting, 
almost  gross. 

Towards  the  end  of  his  last  year  at  Oxford  he  took  to 
writing  again,  but  now  it  was  on  a  different  plan.  A  con- 
versation with  his  tutor  had  driven  him  back  to  psychology, 


74  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

and,  after  reading  some  of  the  most  recently  published 
books  of  the  Continental  and  American  schools,  he  found 
himself  compelled  to  change  his  own  instinctive  views  upon 
the  mystery  of  consciousness.  Why?  Only  a  year  and  a 
half  had  passed  since  he  was  so  absolutely  firm  in  his  stock 
of  broad  ideas,  and  so  confident  in  the  solidity  of  their  log- 
ical sequence.  Now  he  suddenly  became  aware  of  discon- 
nected links,  confusions,  partial  if  not  general  fogginess. 
Then  he  thought,  "I  have  been  reading  too  much — I  have 
been  absorbing  too  readily."  Diffusive  reading  is  perhaps 
always  destructive  to  individual  originality,  and  he  began 
instinctively  to  dread  the  thought  of  others,  as  killing  one's 
own  thought.  Perhaps  already  he  knew  enough  for  his 
purpose;  he  had  made  a  wide  foundation,  he  must  begin 
now  to  build  for  himself,  or  he  would  never  do  so.  And  he 
determined  that  henceforth,  except  in  regard  to  specialised 
work,  such  as  his  theology,  he  would  read  only  for  recrea- 
tion and  not  for  the  purpose  of  opening  his  mind. 

It  is  better  to  make  one's  own  discoveries,  even  though 
they  prove  to  be  as  old  as  the  hills.  Setting  himself,  there- 
fore, the  most  difficult  of  all  tasks — to  think  for  one's  self — 
he  tried  to  put  down  on  paper  a  plain  statement  of  his  be- 
lief in  regard  to  the  soul,  the  mind,  and  the  human  brain, 
and  he  found  that  he  could  not  do  it.  Tested  by  that 
standard,  the  possibility  of  explicit  expression,  his  thoughts 
were  too  vague — his  thoughts  were  of  no  value. 

Day  after  day,  he  struggled  to  express  what  he  felt  most 
strongly,  even  if  he  could  not  translate  his  feelings  into 
set  terms  of  belief ;  but  here  again  he  failed,  and  failed  in  a 
curious  manner.  For  now  each  time  that  he  turned  to 
spiritual  explanations,  material  facts  suggested  themselves 
vividly,  and  when  he  started  from  the  basis  of  matter  the 
overwhelming  claims  of  spirit  asserted  themselves. 

But  he  could  think  allegorically  and  find  ready  words,  a 
hundred  rapid  turns  of  phrase,  so  long  as  he  did  not  attempt 
to  combine  the  two  methods  of  explanation. 

At  last  he  accepted  his  inability,  and  said  "It  is  of  no 
moment.  I  will  take  mental  sensation  as  I  find  it,  and  be 
content  with  the  certainties  of  faith." 

Then  he  became  comfortable,  and  he  left  his  notes  incon- 
secutive or  broken  as  they  fell  upon  the  paper. 


75 

Meditating  on  the  ceaseless  activity  of  thought — or  con- 
sciousness— that  goes  with  us  almost  from  the  cradle  to  the 
grave,  he  said  to  himself,  "Only  in  its  restlessness  can  it 
ever  truly  seem  a  reflection  or  even  a  parallel  progress  with 
the  incessant  motions,  the  modecular  readjustments  of  our 
brain-material.  But  doubtless  the  entire  substance  of  our 
bodies  is  drawn  upon  to  support  this  almost  merciless  activ- 
ity of  the  inner  unappeasable  self — the  something  that 
knows  no  real  respite  even  in  sleep,  that  is  at  once  a  passive 
spectator  and  an  active  controller,  that  makes  the  thought- 
pictures  which  it  sees  and  yet  suffers  because  the  subjects 
of  the  pictures  bring  torment  and  despair  more  often  than 
peace  and  hope." 

At  this  point  he  felt  the  break  in  the  sequence  of  his 
ideas;  and  he  began  to  think  of  the  soul  as  a  lamp  which 
burns  bright  and  clear,  illuminating  the  mirror  which  is  the 
mind — and  for  perfect  peace  the  mirror  should  show  noth- 
ing but  the  steady  flame  of  the  contented  soul.  And  think- 
ing again  of  the  ugly  pictures  that  are  memories,  coming 
unbidden,  not  to  be  driven  away,  shown  to  us  by  the 
mirror  whether  we  will  or  no,  and  causing  a  sickness  of  dis- 
satisfaction with  self,  he  said,  "Yes,  I  know  that  this  at 
least  is  true."  Then,  as  if  automatically,  his  pen  made  a 
note — 

"And  God  means  men  to  realise  the  necessity  of 
goodness — teaches  them  by  mirror  and  lamp." 

He  thought,  "Perhaps  wicked  men,  sunk  in  sensual  vice, 
have  veiled  the  mirror  with  encrusted  dirt,  so  that  they  see 
no  glimmer  of  the  lamp.  But  probably  not.  Glimpses  of 
light  they  still  have :  sufficient  to  make  them  suffer  transient 
remorse."  Then  he  wrote  another  note — 

"Or  the  flame  of  the  lamp  may  burn  low  and  dim 
in  its  thought-cavern,  and  all  may  seem  smoky  and 
obscure  when  the  thoughts  are  bad,  unhappy,  foolish. 
But  happy,  innocent  thought  feeds  the  flame,  and  the 
breath  of  the  flame  is  thought-vapour  that  rises,  and 
can  rise  as  high  as  heaven — a  fragrant  incense  for  the 
throne  of  grace." 


76      THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

He  went  back  to  theological  studies,  and  left  his  notes 
untouched;  but  out  of  them  there  had  come,  most  strongly, 
that  image  of  the' mirror  and  the  lamp — an  image  that  pre- 
sented itself  again  and  again,  until  he  came  to  use  it  as  a 
thought-token  or  symbol  always,  saying  to  himself:  "It 
shall  be  my  guide,  and  I  will  trust  to  none  other.  Whether 
I  stand  or  fall,  I  will  live  by  the  Mirror  and  the  Lamp," 


XII 

WITH  some  of  it  on  the  south  and  more  of  it  on  the  north 
of  the  great  main  thoroughfare  that  connects  Aldgate  and 
the  East  India  Docks,  St.  Bede's  at  this  period  of  its  history 
was  perhaps  the  poorest  and  most  miserable  parish  in  the 
East  End  of  London.  Close-packed,  crushed  by  the  but- 
tressed height  of  railway  viaducts,  rendered  airless  by  huge 
walls  of  factories,  it  at  once  banished  lively  interest  from  a 
stranger's  mind  and  left  only  a  dull  oppression  of  the  spirit. 
It  was  forlorn  without  being  tragic,  hideous  and  yet  not 
thrillingly  terrific;  it  had  no  salient  features;  it  was  not 
picturesque  like  Limehouse,  not  maritime  like  Poplar ;  there 
was  none  of  the  gaiety  and  squabbling  good-fellowship  of 
Jewish  districts ;  there  came  into  it  no  colour  or  relief 
from  strangely  garbed  Asiatics.  Dusty  and  grey  in  sun- 
shine, black  and  sinister  at  twilight,  it  seemed  to  be  the 
place  of  work  without  hope,  vice  without  joy,  pain  that  has 
become  so  much  a  habit  that  it  is  no  longer  felt. 

If  those  who  knew  the  parish  best  had  desired  to  claim 
for  it  a  single  distinguishing  characteristic,  they  would 
probably  have  put  forward  the  attribute  of  unusual  noise. 
Generally  the  sounds  of  the  East  End  are  mechanically 
produced — the  rattle  of  trams,  the  murmur  of  moving 
wheels,  the  scroop  and  jar  of  swing  bridges  opening  and 
shutting,  the  fussy  clamour  of  steam  cranes;  but,  except 
in  the  big  streets,  people  do  not  themselves  contribute 
largely  to  the  babel.  They  go  about  their  work,  never  as 
elsewhere  stopping  to  stare  or  lingering  to  wonder.  There 
is  neither  idleness  nor  curiosity.  But  in  St.  Bede's  the 
racket  of  mechanism  seemed  all  day  long  to  concentrate  it- 
self, and  at  dark  the  human  voice  grew  loud  in  meaningless 
chorus. 

And  from  various  causes  the  home  of  religion  appeared 
to  be  the  very  heart  or  focal  point  of  St.  Bede's  noisiness. 
The  church,  the  vicarage,  and  dependent  buildings,  had  for 
companions  a  ginger  beer  manufactory  and  a  tobacco  ware- 

77 


78      THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

house;  the  board  schools  were  close  by;  the  railway  line 
sprang  slantingly  from  pier  to  pier,  flung  its  arches  or  girders 
above  top  windows,  and  divided  the  immense  chimney  tow- 
ers. The  streets  here  were  paved  with  stone,  so  that  the 
clatter  of  wagon  horses  aided  the  thunder  of  passing  trains; 
fifty  sorry  little  shops  made  a  commercial  centre,  and  at 
nightfall  costers  regularly  wheeled  in  their  barrows,  sta- 
tioned themselves  at  immemorial  pitches,  filling  the  road- 
way, forming  a  lamplit  market  from  kerb  to  kerb. 

Inside  the  vicarage  one  had  almost  the  same  amount  of 
noise  as  outside,  but  with  a  local  and  individual  atmosphere 
of  confusion  as  well.  From  the  roof-tree  to  the  basement 
boards,  its  inmates,  except  when  asleep,  were  always  busy, 
always  trying  to  do  more  than  was  humanly  possible,  know- 
ing that  it  was  so  and  yet  still  trying.  Only  after  repeat- 
edly frustrated  attempts  could  the  vicar,  his  wife,  or  the  two 
resident  curates  sit  down  to  eat,  to  read,  to  write;  and, 
when  seated,  no  one  was  ever  comfortable ;  each  was  wait- 
ing to  be  made  to  get  up  again. 

Mr.  Walsden,  the  vicar,  was  a  short,  square  man  of  about 
sixty;  an  eager,  quick-moving,  plain-speaking  man;  a 
shrewd,  kindly,  brave  creature,  but  not  at  all  intellectual, 
and  quite  devoid  of  poetry  or  romance.  The  only  beautiful 
thing  in  his  life  was  his  faith,  which  had  mingling  with  it  a 
missionary  spirit  that  burned  undimmed.  He  was  worldly 
only  in  his  knowledge  of  the  world.  He  did  not  allow 
people  to  impose  upon  him,  and  rapidly  detected  the  rascal 
tricks  of  jail-bird  converts  who  called  in  order  to  announce 
that  they  had  found  salvation,  but  who  really  wanted  to 
find  the  silver  spoons  or  anything  else  they  could  nip  off 
with. 

Missionary  zeal  was  certainly  the  strongest  note  of  his 
character — the  desire  to  carry  the  sacred  torch  to  all  regions 
of  darkness.  As  a  young  man,  he  had  spent  some  years  at 
a  mission  in  Africa — the  real  thing,  honest  man-eating 
blacks  all  round  one,  whole-hearted  enjoyment.  He  loved 
it.  In  his  sermons  he  often  drew  on  the  experiences  of  that 
happy  period — telling  the  usual  sort  of  missionary  anec- 
dotes with  immense  gusto,  not  fearing  to  shock  the  suscep- 
tibilities of  the  over-refined,  calling  a  spade  a  spade.  Prob- 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      79 

ably  it  was  while  among  the  plumed  cannibals  that  he  had 
acquired  a  habit  of  saying  exactly  what  he  meant  in  the 
most  forcible  manner,  and  entirely  neglecting  grace  of  dic- 
tion. 

Mrs.  Walsden,  a  sandy,  washed-out  little  woman,  was 
just  the  devoted  wife  that  such  a  man  requires.  Her  faith 
was  as  great  as  his,  and  her  energy  scarcely  less  remark- 
able. She  worked  for  and  with  him,  labouring  at  guilds, 
mothers'  meetings,  sick  funds,  what  not;  acting  as  house- 
keeper, secretary,  and  district  messenger;  she  would  fast  in 
Lent  as  an  example  to  others,  play  the  church  organ,  go 
on  her  knees  to  pray  for  the  good  of  the  dead  or  to  scrub 
some  filthy  bedroom  floor  for  the  convenience  of  the  living. 
In  the  same  breath  she  offered  a  wretched  parishioner  soup 
tickets,  coals,  and  divine  consolation.  The  one  grief  of  her 
life  had  been  loss  of  offspring,  and  its  constant  regret  was 
that  Mr.  Walsden  had  not  married  her  in  time  to  take  her 
with  him  to  Africa. 

The  children — two  weaklings — had  died  in  a  Lancashire 
town;  poisoned,  as  the  parents  thought,  by  the  foul  smoke 
and  miasmic  air  to  which  the  higher  call  of  duty  condemned 
them.  They  would  have  lived  in  the  salubrious  climate  of 
Africa. 

Their  miniatures  hung  upon  the  drawing-room  wall — 
sham  miniatures,  some  dreadful  coarse  process  of  glori- 
fying photographs  by  the  gift  of  crude  colours;  and  there 
were  larger,  untinted  portraits  of  the  poor  mites  hanging 
in  the  vicar's  study.  When  showing  them  to  visitors  he 
would  blow  his  nose  violently,  brush  his  bandana  hand- 
kerchief across  his  eyes,  and  say,  "The  Lord  gave,  and  the 
Lord  has  taken  away.  We  both  loved  them.  Perhaps  the 
Lord  will  give  again.  My  wife  has  ten  years  of  the  child- 
bearing  period  still  before  her.  If  a  child  of  our  old  age 
were  vouchsafed  to  us,  it  would  be  very  precious." 

"An'  I'm  sure  I  'ope  so,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  Mrs.  Jones 
or  whoever  it  happened  to  be.  "I've  bin  through  it  myself. 
P'raps  you  recollect  the  fun'ral  of  our  little  Jane." 

But  there  was  no  time  to  listen  to  the  guest's  expressions 
of  sympathy.  Sad  thoughts,  like  everything  else  at  the  vi- 
carage, had  to  be  got  through  as  promptly  as  possible.  The 


80  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

rule  of  the  house,  which  all  habitual  visitors  well  under- 
stood, had  been  borrowed  from  America :  State  your  busi- 
ness; do  your  business;  and  go  about  your  business. 

"Let  me  see,  Mrs.  Jones,  I  signed  your  book,  didn't  I? 
Then  good-bye.  Shut  the  door  after  you — but  don't  bang 
it." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"Who  is  next?    Who  is  out  there?    Come  in." 

Truly  it  was  an  endless  bustle.  Men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren stood  waiting  in  the  hall ;  a  servant  was  always  wanted 
at  the  front  door  to  let  the  right  people  in  and  out;  the 
curates  ascended  and  descended  the  stairs;  Mrs.  Walsden 
dived  down  into  the  kitchen  to  help  the  overwrought  cook 
in  preparing  doles  of  broken  victuals;  and  Mr.  Walsden 
was  here  and  there  and  everywhere,  in  his  study  one  mo- 
ment, and  the  next  moment  at  the  far  end  of  the  long  pas- 
sage that  led  to  the  church  rooms,  but  always  announcing  his 
situation  by  a  running  fire  of  talk. 

"Emily,  can  Mr.  Emart  have  the  use  of  the  drawing-room 
for  those  girls?  No,  the  confirmation  class.  .  .  .  Hop- 
kins says  there  is  a  bad  escape  of  gas  in  the  club  cellar. 
Yes,  of  course.  Send  for  Mr.  Kay.  .  .  .  Emily,  it  is  the 
singing  class.  Some  one  says  the  piano's  locked.  No,  it  is 
not  locked.  Use  your  strength,  Smart,  my  dear  fellow, 
force  it  open.  The  wood  has  swelled — that  is  all.  .  .  . 
Now,  my  dear  child,  what  do  you  want?  .  .  .  But  why 
do  you  come  here?  Go  back  to  the  dispensary.  See  Miss 
Lacy.  The  vicar's  compliments  to  Miss  Lacy,  and  will  she 
be  kind  enough  to  attend  to  you  at  once.  .  .  .  Where  is 
my  hat?  .  .  .  Can  any  one  tell  me  what  time  we  have 
our  food  to-night  ?  Mrs.  Walsden  must  know.  Cook,  what 
time  did  your  mistress  order  supper?  Oh,  dear,  that  is  the 
church  bell.  Silence,  please.  Do  listen.  Has  the  bell  be- 
gun?" 

And  then  perhaps  practised  ears  straining  themselves 
caught,  as  if  miraculously,  the  monotonous  clank  of  the  bell 
making  a  kind  of  dull  beat  or  rhythm  amidst  the  hubbub. 

Into  all  this  Edward  Churchill  was  plunged  one  winter's 
evening. 

"Sir,"  said  the  maidservant,  "the  new  curate's  in  th' 
'all." 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      81 

Mr.  Walsden  rushed  out  of  his  study,  calling  upstairs  as 
he  came. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Churchill,"  and  he  shook  hands  warmly. 

"Emily,  Emily.  It  is  Mr.  Churchill.  Oh,  dear,  there  is 
that  bell.  Look  here,  I  am  doing  a  service.  Yes,  the  bell 
is  ringing  for  me.  Would  you  care  to  come  too?  Then 
this  way.  .  .  .  Kate — where  is  Kate?  Somehow  get  Mr. 
Churchill's  luggage  taken  up  to  his  room — but  do  not  do  it 
yourself,  Kate,  or  you  will  only  hurt  yourself  again." 

Edward  noticed  the  beads  of  perspiration  on  Mr.  Wals- 
den's  forehead,  the  queer  smell  in  the  long  passage  through 
which  they  were  hurrying,  the  greasiness  of  a  large  map 
against  the  distempered  wall;  then  they  went  through  a 
large  and  a  small  room  that  obviously  were  used  for  parish 
work,  up  some  steps,  and  into  the  vestry;  and  a  minute 
later  he  was  on  his  knees  in  the  church,  with  closed  eyes, 
praying  for  strength  and  courage. 

Indeed  he  felt  that  all  his  courage  was  necessary  to  open 
his  eyes  and  look  about  him  without  distress. 

The  church  was  almost  unbelievably  ugly.  Built  of  yel- 
lowish brick,  it  had  courses  of  glazed  tiles  running  horizon- 
tally round  its  bare  walls ;  columns  of  iron  encased  in  plas- 
ter were  another  attempt  at  decoration,  rather  than  any 
adequate  or  real  support  for  the  galleries  under  which  they 
stood  in  rows ;  the  pavement  right  up  to  the  altar  steps 
consisted  of  the  sort  of  coloured  and  formal  tessellation 
that  is  found  in  hotels  and  swimming  baths ;  the  pews,  pul- 
pit, and  lecturn  were  made  of  highly  varnished  and  clumsily 
moulded  deal ;  the  eastern  wall  had  stencilled  texts  on  white- 
washed scrolls,  and  the  table  of  the  commandments  in  gold, 
with  two  or  three  gaudy  banners.  Fortunately  night  had 
robbed  the  stained  glass  windows  of  their  terror.  In  the 
gaslight  one  could  only  just  see  that  they  were  bad,  but 
one  could  not  guess  how  bad. 

The  service  began,  and  the  congregation — perhaps  thirty 
women  and  half  a  dozen  men,  all  respectably  dressed — 
seemed  devout.  The  cries  of  costermongers  outside  made 
an  unceasing  chorus;  even  while  the  organ  played,  one 
could  hear  trains  passing  on  the  nearest  bridge;  when  the 
four  surpliced  choristers  began  to  sing,  two  of  them  were 
out  of  tune. 


82 

Half  an  hour  ago,  as  he  drove  in  his  four-wheeled  cab, 
Edward  Churchill  had  felt  the  violence  of  the  contrast  be- 
tween such  scenes  and  the  spacious,  tranquil  grandeur  of 
Oxford;  and  now  in  God's  house  he  thought  of  St.  Dun- 
stan's  Cathedral.  Only  by  assiduous  mental  effort  could 
one  remember  that  the  same  deity  was  worshipped  in  these 
astoundingly  different  places.  As  the  service  proceeded 
he  thought  of  the  church  that  he  had  regularly  attended 
while  at  the  University — the  fervour  of  its  chanted  prayers, 
the  richness  and  completeness  of  the  ritual.  He  had  liked 
his  college  chapel,  but  his  real  religious  duties  had  been 
performed  at  St.  Mary's,  in  the  town. 

His  discomfort  increased.  Every  minute  he  became  more 
conscious  of  surprise  and  disappointment.  In  truth  he  was 
feeling  now  what  he  was  to  feel  for  a  long  time — that  aching 
sense  of  loss  when  of  a  sudden  all  that  is  beautiful  has 
gone  out  of  the  life  of  one  who  loves  and  craves  for  beauty. 
He  had  prepared  himself  for  the  effect  of  contrast,  but  it 
was  a  contrast  of  an  entirely  different  kind.  He  had 
thought,  "The  uglier  I  find  the  aspect  of  material  existence 
in  this  sordid  neighbourhood,  the  more  lovely  will  be,  by 
comparison,  all  that  pertains  to  its  spiritual  life.  To  turn 
from  one  to  the  other  will  be  to  enjoy  light  after  dark- 
ness." But  now  it  seemed  to  him  that  this  church  and  the 
surrounding  streets  were  all  one;  matter,  not  spirit,  gov- 
erned them;  if  those  shouting  costers  came  and  cried  their 
wares  in  here  it  would  scarcely  seem  a  sacrilege. 

Mr.  Walsden  entered  the  pulpit,  began  to  preach,  and 
Edward  Churchill  thought  almost  indignantly,  "Why  has  he 
deceived  me?  He  gave  me  to  understand  that  he  was  a 
Catholic.  He  said  he  hated  the  term  Anglican.  But  he  and 
his  people  are  not  Catholics  at  all.  They  are  Protestants.  The 
service  is  not  even  what  used  to  be  called  High  Church ;  it  is 
Low.  We  shall  not  think  alike  on  a  single  point.  I  shall  have 
to  tell  him  this  plainly.  Meanwhile,  I  blame  myself  for 
having  acted  so  hastily.  It  was  stupid  to  accept  the  first 
chance  that  offered.  At  any  rate,  I  ought  to  have  come  here 
and  seen  for  myself,  instead  of  taking  so  much  for  granted." 

And  then,  not  listening  to  the  sermon,  he  thought  of  how 
he  would  explain  matters,  both  as  to  his  inclinations  in 
regard  to  ceremonial  and  his  habit  of  mind  when  interpret- 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      83 

ing  articles  of  faith.  He  thought:  "I  and  all  those  with 
whom  I  have  associated  and  wish  to  associate  are  not  in  the 
least  slaves  to  terms,  and  we  only  insist  on  them  because  of 
the  plain  meaning  they  convey.  That  is  why  we  must  use 
that  word  Catholic  and  hold  firm  to  its  significance.  We 
belong  to  the  Catholic  Church  in  England,  which  is  exactly 
the  same  church  as  in  the  Martyr's  day  at  St.  Dunstan's — 
it  has  been  an  unbroken  succession  down  the  long  splendid 
line  of  archbishops.  It  is  the  same  as  Roman  Catholicism — 
except  that  we  threw  off  allegiance  to  the  Pope  at  a  certain 
period  of  our  history ;  and  the  allegiance,  in  fact,  had  been 
slight,  because  before  the  unhappy  quarrel  and  split,  the 
Popes  had  always  recognised  our  right  to  considerable  lib- 
erty as  the  great  Western  pioneers  or  colonists.  Nowadays, 
then,  we  are  one  with  the  Roman  Catholic  in  everything, 
except  that  we  do  not  recognise  the  Pope,  nor  the  modern 
inventions  or  developments  of  the  Papacy — such  as  Mari- 
olatry,  the  Immaculate  Conception,  and  so  on.  But  these 
are  trifles  compared  with  the  great  principles  of  faith  which 
remain  unchanged,  and  which  are  identical  with  them  and 
with  us.  First  and  foremost,  the  Mass — the  Sacrifice  of  the 
Eucharist ;  and  I  must  tell  Mr.  Walsden  that  if  he  does  not 
want  me  to  teach  this  straight  sequence  of  penitence,  con- 
fession, remission  of  sins,  and  the  eucharistic  sacrament — 
well,  I  can't  teach  anything  at  all,  and  he  had  better  let  me 
go  before  I  unpack  my  things." 

Then  he  folded  his  hands  and  listened.  The  preacher  was 
finishing  an  anecdote,  which  he  had  introduced  as  an  illus- 
tration, about  some  bad  and  preposterous  act  committed  by 
a  naked  black  man.  "I  didn't  blame  him" — and  Edward 
noticed  the  tone  of  Walsden's  shrewd  kind  voice,  and  his 
simple  enthusiastic  manner.  "No,  I  didn't  blame  him.  No, 
poor  fellow,  he  sinned  in  ignorance — as  you  and  I,  my 
friends,  make  our  mistakes,  and  think  we  are  all  right — 
cock-sure,  sometimes,  that  we  are  right,  just  when  we  are 
most  wrong." 

After  the  service  was  over  and  the  congregation  had  all 
gone  out,  Churchill  went  back  to  the  vestry.  Mr.  Walsden 
was  hurriedly  unrobing  himself,  and  perspiration  in  thicker 
beads  showed  on  his  bald  forehead.  He  introduced 
Churchill  to  the  curate  who  had  been  assisting. 


84      THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

"Smart,  here  is  Mr.  Churchill.  Smart  will  show  you  round 
to-morrow.  Smart  knows  the  ropes — none  better.  Now 
where  is  Mr.  Hopkins  ?  Hopkins,  I  must  explain,  is  a  church 
warden  and  an  extremely  good  fellow — and  he  is  bringing 
me  the  printer's  proofs  of  some  balance  sheets.  But  why 
isn't  he  here?  Oh,  I  do  wish  people  would  be  punctual. 
Smart,  do  go  and  look  for  him." 

Then,  alone  with  Churchill,  he  spoke  jovially.  "Well, 
what  do  you  think  of  us?" 

Churchill  hinted  at  his  wonder. 

"Ah,  I  see."  Walsden  pulled  a  chair  forward,  and  sat 
down  by  the  table.  "Oh,  dear,  where  are  the  pens  and 
blotting  paper  ?  Shut  the  door,  please.  Look  here.  Are  you 
very  advanced  ?  Tell  me  your  position  precisely." 

But  Churchill  found  now  that  he  could  not  state  the 
reasons  of  his  disappointment  with  the  firmness  and  uncom- 
promising method  that  had  seemed,  such  a  little  while  ago,  to 
be  necessary.  Something  in  Walsden's  aspect,  as  well  as  in 
a  memory  of  his  sermon,  made  it  impossible  to  say  anything 
that  could  conceivably  wound.  However,  speaking  very 
gently,  he  nevertheless  succeeded  in  expressing  his  most 
fixed  opinions  with  clearness. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Walsden.  "I  quite  agree — in 
essentials.  Shake  hands ;"  and  he  stretched  his  hand  across 
the  table.  "You  and  I  will  get  on  together.  You're  frank 
and  open.  You  don't  beat  about  the  bush.  It  would  have 
been  a  blow  to  me  if  you  didn't  like  us,  because  we  were 
so  glad  to  get  you." 

Then  he  went  on  to  say  that  to  him  personally  outward 
form  was  of  very  little  consequence.  He  conducted  matters 
exactly  as  his  predecessor  had  done,  because  the  heads  of  the 
congregation  had  petitioned  him  not  to  make  any  changes. 
"I  agreed  at  once.  As  I  say,  I  don't  attach  much  importance 
to  it.  But  Mrs.  Walsden  would  like  it  the  other  style — your 
style.  She  points  out,  truly  enough,  that  one  ought  to  go  with 
the  tide.  In  many  respects  it  would  be  advantageous.  But 
you  and  I  will  talk  of  this  at  length." 

Just  then  there  came  a  tapping  at  the  door. 

"Ah,  that  is  Hopkins — at  last;"  and  Mr.  Walsden  con- 
tinued very  rapidly  and  cheerily.  "Take  my  word  for  it, 
you'll  settle  down  with  us  all  right.  Give  us  a  trial  anyway. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      85 

....  Come  in,  Mr.  Hopkins.  .  .  .  This  is  Mr.  Churchill, 
who,  as  you  are  aware,  is  good  enough  to  come  to  us  for  his 
diaconate,  and,  as  we  hope,  for  much  longer;  and  being  a 
gentleman  of  independent  means,  he  declines  to  take  any 
payment."  Saying  this  Walsden  rubbed  his  hands  together 
and  smiled  contentedly.  "A  very  welcome,  kind,  useful 
present,  that  means  to  the  parish.  By  the  way,  Hopkins, 
let  this  go  no  further.  We  don't  want  the  tale  running 
round  that  a  rich  person  has  arrived.  Churchill,  my  dear 
fellow,  we  have  such  greedy  sharks,  and  wolves  in  lamb's 
clothing.  Oh,  dear,  there's  so  much  to  tell  you,  so  many 
warnings  to  give  you,  but  all  that  must  be  postponed  for 
the  moment." 

At  the  vicarage,  supper  was  ready  and  waiting  for  every- 
body, but  nobody  came  to  the  dining-room:  There  were 
still  people  in  the  hall,  the  front  door  opened  and  shut  every 
minute,  Mrs.  Walsden  and  the  cook  bustled  up  and  down 
the  kitchen  stairs  with  parcels  of  provisions. 

Finally,  however,  the  assembly  at  the  supper  table  was 
complete — Mrs.  Walsden  standing  up  to  carve  a  joint  of 
cold  boiled  beef,  Mr.  Walsden  sitting  by  her  side,  and 
begging  people  to  take  of  a  new  jar  of  pickles,  Mr.  Smart 
eating  heartily,  and  Mr.  Gardiner,  the  other  curate,  eating 
very  sparingly.  Mr.  Gardiner  had  appeared  last  of  all,  and 
the  sight  of  him  in  his  cassock,  making  the  sign  of  the  cross 
as  he  murmured  a  grace  before  he  sat  down,  was  cheering 
and  comforting.  He  was  small,  dark,  and  very  thin,  with 
an  ascetic  face.  Smart,  on  the  contrary,  was  large  and 
rather  smug;  evidently  not  quite  a  gentleman,  although  no 
doubt  a  very  good  Christian.  Instinctively  Churchill  liked 
the  small  man  in  the  cassock  much  better  than  the  big  man 
in  the  frock  coat. 

"Will  you  not  patronise  these  pickles?"  said  Walsden 
hospitably.  "The  wife,  bless  her  heart,  makes  a  pilgrimage 
to  Barking  for  them.  We  get  them  from  a  dear  girl — yes,  a 
sweet,  good  girl — who  lets  us  have  them  at  wholesale  price. 
It  is  all  above  board — no  hankey-pankey.  They  allow  her 
the  privilege  at  the  factory.  Smart,  help  yourself.  Smart 
is  a  tremendous  fellow  for  our  Barking  pickles." 

And  then,  to  Churchill's  profound  astonishment,  he  ad- 
verted to  the  conversation  in  the  vestry. 


86  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

"Emily,  our  friend  and  I  have  already  had  a  brief  chat 
on  the  most  serious  topics.  Far  too  brief — unfortunately 
we  were  interrupted.  But  strictly  in  the  same  connection, 
there  was  something  that  I  particularly  wanted  to  tell  you, 
Churchill.  It  has  slipped  my  memory.  What  was  it? 
Candles  ?  Vestments  ?  Those  banners  ?  Oh,  dear !"  And 
he  tapped  his  forehead  and  closed  his  eyes,  searching  for  the 
lost  thread. 

Churchill  sat  looking  at  his  plate.  It  seemed  incredible 
that  such  sacred  matters  should  thus  be  publicly  and  casually 
dealt  with. 

"Ah!  I  have  it.  With  regard  to  ritual  generally — I  was 
telling  you  we  all  see  we  are  not  up  to  date,  and  it  is  a  great 
handicap.  We  put  ourselves  completely  out  of  the  fashion. 
Yes,  I  ought  to  warn  you,  perhaps,  that  here,  where  the 
fight  is  stiffest,  scarcely  any  help  comes  from  outside." 

And  he  went  on  to  say  how  smart  society  folk  arrived  in 
batches  to  do  "East-Ending,"  but  never  entered  this 
parish.  Father  Halliday  at  Poplar,  Mr.  Iredale  at  Canning 
Town,  Mr.  Reeves  of  Bow  were  in  close  touch  with 
the  swells,  could  command  their  presence  at  club  openings 
and  prize-givings,  and  did  not  hesitate,  when  pressed  for 
funds,  to  ask  for  a  Fancy  Dress  Ball  at  the  Albert  Hall,  or 
a  matinee  at  a  West  End  theatre.  Mr.  Lock,  of  Burmah 
Bridge,  famous  for  his  sensational  advertising,  was  regu- 
larly patronised  by  a  princess  of  the  blood,  who  thought 
nothing  of  driving  along  the  East  India  Dock  Road  in  a 
royal  carriage.  But  all  these  clergyman  practised  the  choic- 
est and  most  picturesque  rites;  they  were  strictly  fashion- 
able, and  therefore  interesting  and  sympathetic  to  people 
whose  entire  life  was  ruled  by  fashion.  "They  and  their 
grand  friends  not  only  leave  us  out  in  the  cold,  they  look 
down  on  us."  As  he  said  this  Walsden  flushed,  and  his 
voice  for  a  moment  showed  emotion.  "Yes,  I  cannot  but 
admit,  the  clergy  all  round  have  not  shown,  either  to  Mrs. 
Walsden  or  myself,  a  very  generous  spirit.  They  ignore  us 
— they  cut  us  as  much  as  they  can." 

Mrs.  Walsden  had  silently  put  her  hand  upon  his  coat 
sleeve,  and  he  lifted  the  hand  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it. 

"All  right,  sweetheart.  You  are  always  right.  We  can 
get  on  without  the  fine  birds  or  the  fine  feathers." 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      87 

"And  you  forget  the  Verschoyles,"  said  Mrs.  Walsden. 
"Always  remember  the  Verschoyles." 

"Ah,  yes,  indeed,"  said  Walsden  gaily.  "They  are  made 
of  different  stuff."  And  he  told  Churchill  about  this  kind 
rector  of  St.  Ursula's  and  his  sweet  wife,  and  the  charming 
qualities  possessed  by  both  of  them.  Verschoyle  often  in- 
vited Walsden  to  preach  in  the  handsome  church  of  St. 
Ursula,  and  he  himself  would  always  come  cheerfully  to 
preach  at  St.  Bede's.  Morever,  once  when  Mrs.  Walsden 
was  ill,  Mrs.  Verschoyle  acted  as  sick  nurse,  and  took  the 
patient  home  with  her  to  spend  a  fortnight  in  the  beautiful 
rectory,  resting  and  picking  up  strength. 

But  now  the  maid  came  into  the  room  and  checked  Mr. 
Walsden's  busy  tongue.  A  person  who  was  too  dirty  to  be 
admitted  desired  an  interview.  Would  the  vicar  go  and 
speak  to  the  person  at  the  door? 

"Yes,  Kate,  certainly  I  will;"  and  Walsden  jumped  up 
from  his  chair. 

"Do  you  want  your  supper  kept  for  you.-"'  asked  Mrs. 
Walsden. 

"No.    I  have  had  quite  sufficient." 

Edward  Churchill  watched  the  vicar  as  he  bustled  away. 
Then  he  glanced  at  the  vicar's  plate  with  the  cold  meat  and 
pickles  still  on  it,  at  the  nearly  full  glass  of  ginger  beer,  at 
the  hunk  of  bread  out  of  which  only  a  corner  had  been 
nibbled.  The  vicar  had  been  talking  so  much  that  he  had 
lost  his  opportunity  for  eating.  And  it  came  to  Churchill 
as  a  sudden  thought —  a  thought  like  those  which  years  ago 
often  seemed  to  come  from  nowhere — that  one  must  not 
criticise  this  perspiring  old  man.  So  there  and  then  he 
determined  never  to  question  him ;  to  be  docile  towards  him, 
to  submit  to  his  judgment  whenever  possible;  to  act  to  him 
as  youth  should  act  to  age,  as  a  subordinate  to  a  superior 
officer. 

The  turmoil  went  on — no  rest,  no  peace.  He  had  done 
some  unpacking  and  had  been  out  in  the  streets.  It  was 
nearly  eleven  o'clock  now,  and  he  strolled  out  again.  In  the 
little  fair  created  by  the  costers'  barrows  the  evening  only 
seemed  beginning;  and  the  naphtha  flares  made  one's  eyes 


88  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

ache,  the  men's  voices  grated  harshly,  the  girls'  faces  sad- 
dened one.  He  came  back  to  the  vicarage ;  but  there  was 
no  rest  yet.  Two  young  women  stood  on  the  threshold,  and 
Walsden  was  talking  loudly  as  he  hustled  a  loafing  man 
out  of  the  study  and  through  the  hall. 

"Christ  never  said  anything  of  the  sort,  nor  I  either.  And 
it  is  a  bit  of  great  impertinence  your  saying  so.  Now  be 
off.  And  don't  venture  to  show  yourself  here  again  until 
your  heart  is  softened."  Then  he  turned  from  the  door. 
"Oh,  dear,  that  is  very  discouraging.  I  quite  thought  that 
his  heart  was  permanently  softened."  Then  he  turned  once 
more.  "But  I'm  forgetting.  Now,  Nancy  Burton,  what  is 
it  ?  You  know,  it  is  getting  late." 

At  last  such  indications  as  a  bolted  front  door,  lowered 
gas  jets,  and  candlesticks  on  the  hall  table,  announced  that 
the  vicarage  day  was  nearly  if  not  quite  over.  Edward 
had  decided  to  go  to  bed,  when  Walsden  called  up  the  stairs 
after  him. 

"Look  here.  If  you're  not  tired,  do  come  into  my  room, 
and  have  a  pipe  and  a  chat.  Will  you?" 

"With  the  greatest  pleasure." 

Mr.  Smart  was  in  the  study,  but  soon,  yawning  woefully, 
he  apologised  for  his  sleepiness  and  left  the  vicar  and 
Churchill  alone  together. 

"This  is  a  treat,"  said  Walsden,  with  a  contented  sigh. 
"An  hour  stolen  from  oblivion.  Sleep's  good,  but  this  is 
better,  eh  ?  We  keep  such  hours  for  Sunday  nights  as  a  rule 
— but  one  must  make  exceptions." 

His  manner,  even  his  aspect  had  changed ;  the  hurry  and 
fussiness  disappeared;  he  spoke  quietly  and  pleasantly. 
Churchill  noticed  the  change,  and  believed  that  he  under- 
stood it.  This  was  what  the  man  would  be  normally  and 
always,  were  he  not  almost  working  himself  to  death. 

"Light  up,"  said  Walsden,  "and  make  yourself  comfort- 
able. You  must  have  the  arm-chair." 

"Oh,  no." 

"To  oblige  me — to-night,  at  any  rate." 

But  Churchill  insisted  that  the  host  should  occupy  his 
own  proper  chair,  and  presently  he  was  leaning  back  in  it 
smoking  complacently.  Nevertheless  he  observed  Churchill 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      89 

with  great  attention,  for  the  first  time  able  to  study  the 
newcomer  at  his  ease. 

"You  have  a  fine  athletic  frame — although  so  spare.  How 
tall  are  you  ?" 

"Exactly  six  feet." 

"In  your  stockings  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  how  old?  You  told  me,  but  it  has  slipped  my 
memory." 

"I  am  not  quite  twenty-five." 

"Dear  me.  You  look  much  older.  Yes,  I  should  have 
guessed  you  at  thirty-two,  or  thirty-three.  How  is  that? 
Have  you  passed  through  much  trouble?" 

"No.    I  have  had  an  unusually  happy  life." 

"Then  it  must  be  because  of  your  self-possession.  You 
have  great  self-possession." 

"Have  I?"  And  Churchill,  standing  by  the  chimney- 
piece  and  filling  his  pipe,  smiled  down  at  Walsden  in  the 
arm-chair. 

"I  don't  mean  side,"  and  Walsden  laughed  up  at  him. 
"No,  I  see  very  well  you  aren't  that  sort  of  Oxonian.  But 
you  have  presence.  A  very  good  thing  too." 

Then  they  smoked  and  talked  for  a  long  time,  and  it 
seemed  that  in  every  minute  they  liked  each  other  better. 

Walsden,  speaking  of  the  propagation  of  the  Gospel  in 
foreign  parts  and  of  happy  days  under  a  tropical  sun,  ex- 
pressed wonder  that  Edward  had  been  able  to  remain  in 
England.  "Yes,  I  rather  wonder  that,  with  your  means, 
you  did  not  treat  yourself  to  a  few  years  of  that.  It  is  very 
delightful — the  freedom — the  reality  of  it — and  so  healthy. 
For  a  rich  young  man,  full  of  vigour — most  attractive. 
Although  I  need  not  say  how  glad  I  am  you  chose  us  instead. 
When  I  heard  you  were  coming,  I  said,  'This  is  a  godsend  in 
the  truest  sense  of  the  word ;'  and  I  sank  on  my  knees  and 
offered  up  a  few  words  of  thanksgiving.  My  wife  will  tell 
you." 

Edward  replied  that  he  had  often  thought  of  missionary 
enterprise  and  had  been  greatly  drawn  towards  it,  more  par- 
ticularly in  regard  to  a  Javanese  mission  that  was  the  work 
of  Oxford  men.  But  then  he  abandoned  this  idea,  together 
with  many  others,  because  he  had  slowly  arrived  at  a  settled 


90      THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

conviction  of  the  soundness  of  the  theory  of  doing  the  thing 
nearest  to  your  hand.  "And  the  Commercial  Road  is  so 
much  nearer  than  Java." 

"Well,  that's  a  good  answer  too— a  very  good  answer;" 
and  Walsden  smiled  and  nodded  his  head. 

And  another  reason,  as  Edward  explained,  was  his 
mother.  She  was  alone ;  he  did  not  like  to  leave  her — and 
he  told  Walsden  briefly  how  he  hoped  soon  to  make  a  home 
for  her,  and  have  her  with  him.  "She  and  I  are  very 
dependent  on  each  other ;  and  outside  her  affections,  religion 
is  all  in  all  to  her." 

But  there  was  still  another  reason,  a  strong  selfish  reason ; 
and  Edward  Churchill,  while  unfolding  this,  would  have 
perhaps  seemed  priggish  but  for  an  obvious  absence  of 
conceit,  and  if  he  had  not  spoken  as  though  he  now  felt  a 
complete  confidence  in  Walsden's  wisdom  and  an  absolute 
assurance  of  his  comprehending  sympathy.  For  a  moment 
or  two  Walsden  perhaps  felt  that  Mr.  Churchill  was  about 
to  ride  the  high  horse,  get  on  stilts,  or  even  indulge  in 
Oxford  swagger;  but  then  he  listened  with  growing 
approval  of  the  young  man  himself.  He  liked  the  steady 
outlook  of  eye,  the  virile  yet  tender  expression  that  played 
about  the  lips,  the  repose  of  the  whole  mask  that  was  so 
strong  in  the  width  of  brow,  and  so  unsensual  in  its  clear- 
cut  nose  and  narrowed  chin.  There  was  certainly  great 
charm  of  manner,  and  surely  there  must  be  gifts  that  would 
prove  useful  as  well  as  ornamental.  Yes,  behind  it  all 
there  must  lie  a  radiance  of  soul ;  a  pure,  sweet,  but  forcible 
mind,  from  which  thoughts  sprang  in  a  lofty  sweep,  lit  up 
with  the  soul-radiance — thoughts  not  in  themselves  valuable 
perhaps,  but  beautiful  as  water  thrown  from  a  fountain 
into  sunlight.  And  as  Churchill  went  on  expounding  his 
views,  Walsden  thought,  "This  is  a  rare  bird  in  the  East  End 
— an  intellectual  aristocrat,  and  not  merely  a  person  of 
fashion,  like  one  of  Father  Bryan's  crowd;"  and  with  the 
thought  came  the  beginning  of  a  quite  unreasoned  love. 
Instinct  told  him  that  henceforth  he  would  love  his  deacon 
as  much  as  he  could  love  any  individual  without  detriment 
to  love  of  the  entire  race;  that,  whether  he  wished  to  do 
so  or  not,  he  would  bring  him  as  far  forward  from  the 
ruck  of  humanity  as  was  proper  or  permissible. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      91 

With  regard  to  his  other  reason  against  exile  in  rough 
wild  lands,  Edward  said  that  a  fullness  and  completeness  of 
the  inner  life  meant  so  much  to  him  that  he  dared  not 
relinquish  or  even  jeopardise  it.  "To  that  extent  I  am 
selfishly  and  schemingly  a  man  of  thought.  To  me,  the 
supreme  beauty  of  the  Christian  faith  is  that  it  satisfies  the 
reason.  If  brooded  on  it  floods  the  widest  minds.  Its 
philosophy  is  as  perfect  as  the  faith ;  and  its  adaptability  is 
so  wonderful.  It  is  so  simple  and  yet  so  all-embracing 
that,  despite  of  two  thousand  years  of  progress,  in  all  the 
intricateness  and  complexities  of  modern  life,  there  is 
nothing  that  it  will  not  answer.  No  predicament  can  befall 
the  wisest  man  but  Christ  will  put  him  straight.  And  this 
makes  the  intercourse  among  thinking  Christians  so  pleas- 
ant. They  can  help  one  another.  When  assailed  by  doubts, 
they  can  derive  support  from  their  allies.  And  surely  that 
must  be  the  greatest  glory  of  the  priest — or,  say  his  most 
subtle  joy — when  some  noble  mind  comes  to  him  for  aid; 
when  the  priest  fights  and  beats  down  the  doubts;  when 
he  chases  them  like  devils  through  the  stately  halls  of  the 
man's  mind — fights  them  in  the  throne-room,  the  ante- 
rooms, and  outer  chambers,  driving  them  headlong  at  last 
from  the  thought-palace,  and  leaving  its  splendid  peace 
unbroken. 

"Well  then,  you  can't  have  this  among  the  savages.  We 
of  the  civilised  world  are  too  high  above  them ;  our  thoughts 
are  unthinkable  by  them.  They  are — as  science  tells  us — 
where  our  remote  ancestors  were  in  the  scale  of  human  in- 
telligence. There  can  be  no  communion  of  minds.  You  give 
them  the  bare  facts  and  call  upon  their  faith.  With  them  it 
must  be  all  faith — because  they  have  no  reasoning  faculties 
to  satisfy.  If  they  are  attacked  by  doubt,  it  must  be  the 
sort  of  devil  that  can  be  knocked  on  the  head  with  a  blud- 
geon. Something  you  said  in  your  sermon  sums  it  up.  You 
told  us  that  black  preachers  do  the  quickest  work — that 
converted  heathens  are  the  best  missionaries  to  the  heathen, 
because  they  are  in  closer  sympathy  or  harmony  of  ideas. 
Then  nearly  all  the  higher  powers  of  an  educated  man 
would  seem  wasted.  To  go  as  a  young  man  might  mean 
the  renunciation  of  one's  dreams  or  hopes  of  ever  doing  the 
higher  class  work  of  our  Master.  After  all,  He  has  devel- 


92  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

oped  the  delicate  instrument  of  men's  brains — and  it  cannot 
be  wrong  to  hope  that  He  will  let  us  use  the  instrument — 
all  of  it — in  His  service. 

"I  am  afraid  this  sounds  vainglorious — it  is  not  con- 
sciously so,"  and  Edward  had  a  deprecating  smile.  "It  is 
complete  selfishness  perhaps.  And  I  trust  you  don't  think 
I  am  belittling  the  noble  work  of  the  life-long  missionary.  I 
can  see  that,  even  from  my  own  point  of  view,  it  may  be 
more  Christlike — the  renunciation  of  the  joy  of  thinking — 
the  grandeur  of  giving  all.  And  practically  it  may  be  a 
more  noble — a  more  widely  useful  task.  Because  the  mis- 
sionary is  moulding  future  generations.  In  a  sense  he  is 
rough-hewing,  without  set  pattern,  for  God  himself;  he  is 
preparing,  for  God  to  complete  in  future  ages,  the  clumsy 
models  that  he  has  bravely  attempted  to  shape.  Better,  I 
mean,  when  all  is  over — better  to  have  been  the  man  who 
made  the  first  rough  harpsichord  than  the  man  who  went 
about  the  villas  to  set  the  pianos  in  tune.  That  might  be 
the  philosophical  view  of  it." 

"I  can  see  one  thing,  young  gentleman — you  are  a  philos- 
opher yourself.  You  look  all  round  questions.  And  not  a 
bad  thing  either.  Oh  dear;"  and  Walsden  sighed  plain- 
tively. "This  has  been  very  refreshing;  and  I  could  sit 
smoking  here  till  dawn — but  then  I  should  go  about  my 
work  to-morrow  half  asleep ;  and  I  do  assure  you,  you  want 
your  eyes  wide  open  in  St.  Bede's." 


XIII 

EDWARD  CHURCHILL  never  forgot  the  impression  made 
upon  him  by  the  first  Saturday  evening  and  the  Men's 
Club.  Truly  there  could  be  no  need  to  go  to  Java:  the 
savages  were  here,  all  round  him. 

Before  visiting  the  club  he  was  taken  fqr  a  little  tour  of 
exploration  by  Mr.  Smart,  who  said  rather  sententiously, 
"The  vicar  has  charged  me  to  show  you  round,  and  if  agree- 
able to  you  I  will  do  so,  although  I  cannot  profess  to  be  a 
highly  skilled  guide.  My  own  duties  lie  in  a  small  area,  and 
I  do  not  willingly  go  out  of  it." 

They  passed  from  the  noise  and  lamplight  of  the  market- 
ing centre  into  dark  and  comparatively  empty  streets;  and 
Mr.  Smart  spoke  again  with  the  same  sententious  tone. 

"To-night,  of  course,  is  the  great  East  End  festival,  and 
one  should  be  prepared  to  be  somewhat  shocked  if  one  is  not 
used  to  it,  but  our  particular  week-end  has  obtained  more 
notoriety  than  it  deserved  because  of  the  murders ;"  an  i  he 
said  a  few  words  about  the  series  of  abominable  crimes 
concerning  which  the  world  still  talked. 

"But  did  the  murders  happen  here  ?"  asked  Churchill. 

"Two  of  them — and  both  on  Saturday  night.  That,  of 
course,  seemed  so  very  daring — it  being  a  time  when  there 
are  more  people  passing  to  and  fro.  Excuse  me  a  moment." 

They  had  stopped  outside  a  greengrocer's  shop,  and  Mr. 
Smart  spoke  to  the  shopman. 

"You'll  be  at  the  club  later?" 

"No,  not  to-night,  sir.    The  missis  has  got  comp'ny." 

The  level  of  the  shop  was  about  two  feet  below  the  pave- 
ment, and  it  was  merely  a  room  from  which  the  glass 
window  had  been  removed,  and  on  the  walls  of  which  a 
few  deal  shelves  had  been  fixed.  The  stock  consisted  of 
onions  hanging  in  strings  and  some  large  piles  of  potatoes 
and  small  piles  of  turnips  and  carrots.  Nothing  in  the 
nature  of  green  vegetables  was  visible.  The  door  behind  the 
shop  was  open,  and  one  could  see  in  the  gaslight  an  end 

93 


94  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

of  a  bed  with  four  people  sitting  on  it,  a  woman  rocking 
a  cradle,  five  or  six  other  people  standing  and  drinking— 
a  compact  and  quite  contented  evening  party  gathered  to- 
gether within  a  space  of  perhaps  nine  feet  square. 

"Dance  is  one  of  the  vicar's  pillars — pillar  of  the  Church, 
I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Smart,  as  they  walked  on.  "Quite  a  good 
type.  .  .  .  Now  this  will  interest  you ;"  and  he  dropped  his 
voice,  as  if  anxious  not  to  be  overheard  by  any  passer-by. 
"This  is  the  scene  of  our  last  murder." 

They  had  come  to  a  corner  where  a  fairly  wide  street 
opened  suddenly  on  their  right  between  a  high  blank  wall 
and  the  back  of  a  factory.  The  glimmering  light  from  a 
lamp-post  near  the  corner  showed  one  but  a  few  yards  of 
this  avenue,  and  then  all  became  opaque  darkness. 

"Cul-de-sac,"  whispered  Mr.  Smart,  and  he  advanced  a 
little  way  towards  the  darkness,  moving  cautiously,  as  one 
who  half  expects  something  to  spring  out  at  him.  "There. 
We  won't  go  any  farther.  I  can  hear  voices,"  and  he  put 
his  hand  on  Churchill's  arm.  "There  is  a  gate  at  the  bottom, 
which  the  workpeople  use  in  the  daytime.  Now,  of  course, 
everything  is  shut  up,  so  no  one  has  any  business  down 
here"  Then  in  a  still  lower  whisper  he  said,  "There's  a 
man  with  two  women.  They  will  make  a  fuss  if  they  think 
we  are  prying  on  them.  Come." 

Churchill's  eyes,  growing  accustomed  to  the  gloom,  could 
just  distinguish  three  motionless  figures  at  a  little  distance 
by  the  wall. 

"Come  along,"  said  Mr.  Smart.  "We  have  the  light 
behind  us,  you  know,  so  they  can  see  us  quite  plainly ;"  and, 
turning,  he  drew  Churchill  away. 

"What  sort  of  women  are  they?" 

"Oh,  the  most  unfortunate  class — regularly  leading  a  life 
of  shame.  There  are  thousands  and  thousands  of  them; 
and  your  great  surprise,  when  you  get  to  recognise  them, 
vill  be  their  sordid  and  miserable  appearance.  One 
wonders,  don't  you  know,  that  any  man  could  fall  so  low  as 
to  be  lured  by  them.  But  there  it  is;"  and,  moving  off 
from  the  ill- famed  spot,  Mr.  Smart  resumed  a  conversa- 
tional tone  and  seemed  more  at  ease.  "I  am  glad  you  saw 
that — because  it  was  really  a  peep  behind  the  scenes.  You 
can  imagine  all  the  rest.  The  victim  and  her  chance  com- 


95 

panion  went  down  as  far  as  the  gate — and  then,  just  out  of 
sight  but  quite  within  sound,  the  deed  was  done.  As  a  fact, 
there  was  no  sound  made." 

"But  those  women  we  saw — were  they  safe  ?" 

"Oh,  yes.  Two  of  them,  don't  you  see  ?  Besides,  the  man 
those  two  were  with  was  probably  quite  a  respectable  fellow. 
You  know  what  I  mean ;"  and  Mr.  Smart  chuckled  smugly, 
as  if  he  had  made  a  joke.  "I  mean,  a  million  to  one  that 
he  wasn't  a  murderer.  .  .  .  Now,  see.  This  also  is  typical. 
Good-evening,  officers." 

"Good-evening,  sir." 

A  couple  of  policemen  had  passed  side  by  side,  and  Mr. 
Smart  remarked  upon  the  fact  that  only  at  this  end  of  the 
town  do  the  police  go  on  duty  in  pairs.  He  assured  Churchill 
that  there  was  a  very  necessary  caution  in  this  habit,  since 
single  policemen  had  on  occasions  been  most  mercilessly 
knocked  about — indeed,  even  two  at  a  time  had  been 
maltreated. 

"You  know,  theoretically,"  he  went  on,  "the  cloth  is 
always  respected.  Mr.  Walsden  declares  one  need  never 
fear  personal  violence.  It  is  a  saying  that  the  doctor  and 
the  parson  may  go  anywhere — with  few  exceptions.  Per- 
sonally, I  confess  I  think  our  friend  Walsden  pushes  the 
theory  too  far.  For  instance,  to-night  he  asked  me  to  take 
you  through  the  worst  places,  as  if  it  was  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world — and  it  would  have  been  just  the  same 
if  he  had  been  asking  me  to  go  alone.  Although,"  and  Mr. 
Smart  laughed,  "I  might  not  have  accepted  the  invitation 
so  readily.  For  though  I  have  never  yet  been  threatened, 
I  have  several  times  been  grossly  insulted." 

"I  would  always  go  with  you — if  you  would  be  good 
enough  to  let  me — to  answer  any  call." 

Smart  said  he  would  be  delighted  to  avail  himself  of  this 
offer,  and  he  should  certainly  remember  it;  but  he  added 
that,  for  the  most  part,  he  preferred  to  remain  in  the  imme- 
diate vicinity  of  the  church  and  the  church  rooms,  attending 
to  parochial  organisation.  The  other  curate,  Gardiner,  was 
fonder  of  going  afield. 

It  was  curious,  but  instinctively,  invincibly,  Churchill  liked 
Mr.  Smart  less  and  less.  He  seemed  deficient  in  sympathy, 
narrow  of  outlook,  unimaginative.  And  there  was  some- 


96  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

thing  very  jarring  about  his  talk  of  danger.  Churchill 
thought  of  the  police:  merely  paid  servants  of  the  public, 
•who  have  to  go  anywhere — one  by  one,  or  two  by  two — at 
the  call  of  duty.  And  if  a  policeman  may  face  all  risks, 
surely  a  servant,  a  soldier  of  Christ  may  do  so. 

From  the  side  streets  they  came  in  a  moment  to  the  main 
thoroughfare,  and  were  amidst  streams  of  people,  the  trams 
and  omnibuses  rattling  by,  gaslight  flaring,  and  a  cold  wind 
blowing.  Outside  a  small  music-hall,  drawn  by  the  blaze  of 
electric  light  and  the  gaudy  pictorial  advertisements,  the 
crowd  had  assembled  so  thickly  that  it  was  difficult  to  get 
through ;  then,  when  the  pressure  lessened,  one  had  to  make 
a  detour  in  order  not  to  interfere  with  ragged,  dirty  children 
dancing  in  front  of  a  piano  organ ;  and  all  along  the  broad 
pavement  one  had  to  steer  wide  of  flaunting  girls  who  were 
followed  and  often  surrounded  by  groups  of  pallid  boys  and 
young  men.  The  girls — some  of  them  quite  young — were 
smartly  dressed,  as  though  for  a  summer  promenade  on 
some  seaside  pier;  with  bolero  hats  set  jauntily  on  curled 
fringes,  cream-coloured  or  mauve  jackets  fitting  close  to 
their  hips,  and  many-tinted  skirts  and  scarfs  flapping  in 
the  chill  breeze.  All  their  faces  were  painted  and  powdered. 

"O  crikey,  look  at  the  Devil-dodgers,"  said  one  of  them, 
and  she  laughed  hoarsely,  calling  after  Smart  to  give  her  a 
kiss  next  Good  Friday. 

Another  of  them  nudged  Churchill's  elbow  and  said, 
"Cheer  up,  ole  pal.  Don't  look  so  glum.  What  price  'oly 
water?" 

"Who  are  these  young  women  ?"  he  asked  Smart. 

"Well,  how  shall  I  express  it?  They  are,  so  to  speak, 
amateurs — but  I  fear,  from  a  moral  point  of  view,  as  com- 
pletely lost  as  the— er — professionals." 

After  less  than  a  hundred  yards  of  the  main  thoroughfare 
they  turned  back  into  a  slanting  street  that  seemed  to  be 
another  market-place,  and  busier,  more  prosperous,  more 
cheerful  than  the  one  they  had  left  behind  them  at  the 
church.  Just  at  the  bottom  of  this  street  a  man  had  sta- 
tioned himself  on  an  island  of  pavement  where  the  trams 
and  buses  stopped,  and  he  was  loudly  preaching  to  the 
empty  air.  Tram  passengers  stood  close  to  him,  hawkers 
with  baskets  brushed  against  him,  some  little  children  played 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  97 

all  round  and  almost  through  his  legs ;  but  not  a  living  soul 
listened,  or  even  took  the  faintest  notice  of  him,  as  he 
ranted  about  heaven  and  hell.  He  was  a  finely  built  man,  in 
his  physical  prime,  black-coated,  of  the  superior  mechanic 
class,  with  a  handsome,  strong  face,  and  staring  eyes  that 
had  no  flash  in  them,  but  just  vitreous  fixity  of  stare. 

Mr.  Smart  said  what  Edward  Churchill  was  thinking. 
"There's  an  obvious  madman.  You  can  see  it  in  his  eyes." 

They  walked  up  the  street,  all  among  the  stalls,  and 
Churchill  noticed  a  brightness  and  gaiety  that  came  as  a 
great  relief.  The  shops  seemed  much  better  than  any 
he  had  yet  seen,  the  people  better  clothed,  healthier,  and 
more  like  men  and  women  anywhere  else.  Respectable 
mothers  of  families  put  their  purchases  in  perambulators 
and  smiled  at  wide-awake  babies,  girls  and  young  men 
walked  together  as  if  they  were  engaged  couples,  and  a 
soldier  in  uniform  carried  a  jolly  little  chap  astride  on  his 
neck  to  see  the  fun. 

"We  have  got  beyond  the  boundary  of  St.  Bede's,"  said 
Mr.  Smart.  "This  is  not  in  our  parish.  But  as  soon  as  we 
cross  the  water  we  shall  be  back  again." 

Almost  immediately  they  turned  out  of  the  street,  left  the 
cheerfulness  of  this  more  fortunate  parish,  and,  passing 
through  an  alley,  came  to  a  footbridge  over  a  canal.  In  this 
open  space  one  could  look  about  one,  and  Churchill  saw  with 
surprise  that  the  moon  had  risen  and  was  shining  palely  and 
sadly  in  the  midst  of  a  wild,  cloud-swept  sky.  There  was 
moonlight  on  the  water,  the  mud  banks,  and  the  slate  roofs 
of  lean-to  sheds. 

They  crossed  the  footbridge,  went  under  a  railway  arch, 
and  entered  a  street  that  ran  parallel  with  the  canal. 

"Now  we  are  back  in  St.  Bede's,"  said  Mr.  Smart  whis- 
peringly;  "in  the  very  worst  part.  Criminals,  really  bad 
class  here.  Gangs  only  waiting  to  set  on  any  stranger — 
rob  him,  kill  him,  chuck  his  dead  body  in  the  canal;"  and 
he  linked  his  arm  through  Churchill's,  and  led  him  slowly. 
"It  is  never  advisable  to  appear  to  hurry.  They  don't  like 
that — and  then  they  get  suspicious." 

It  was  terrible:  oppressing  the  imagination,  making  one 
not  timorous  but  appalled.  The  streets  were  straight,  set 
very  close  together,  and  over  the  low  roofs  the  interminable 


98  THE  MIRROR  AND.  THE  LAMP 

brick  viaduct  threw  its  shadow  by  day  and  made  the  nights 
darker.  There  seemed  to  be  scarcely  any  street  lamps ;  the 
houses,  with  windows  all  tight-shut  and  black  as  the  walls, 
gave  only  a  gleam  here  and  there  from  an  open  doorway ;  so 
that,  but  for  the  moonlight,  it  would  have  been  like  a  cold, 
evil-smelling  cavern — like  some  labyrinth  underground,  like 
a  deep-buried  inferno  where  one  dreaded  but  could  not 
guard  against  chance  contact  with  the  dwellers  in  darkness. 

Yet  one  almost  wished  that  the  moon  would  not  shine; 
for  all  that  its  rays  showed  was  so  ugly,  so  vile,  so  fantas- 
tically sinister.  One  saw,  as  if  sketched  in  grey  and  silver 
on  black  paper,  small  courts  that  issued  out  of  the  street 
at  intervals — narrow  irregularly  shaped  openings  with 
shanties  rather  than  houses  on  either  side,  seeming  like 
the  assemblage  of  roofed  shelters  where  poultry  would  be 
kept  and  not  human  beings ;  and  one  knew  that  just  beyond 
the  bottom  of  such  courts,  divided  from  them  by  some 
crazy  rails,  if  divided  at  all,  there  was  the  deep  fosse  of 
the  canal  with  its  black  slimy  flood  ready  to  hide  every 
secret.  The  air,  although  impregnated  with  unpleasant 
odours,  seemed  every  moment  to  grow  colder  and  thinner, 
as  if  the  breath  of  famine  had  long  since  exhausted  its 
warmth  and  sustaining  virtues.  And  an  extraordinary  life- 
less silence  reigned  over  everything. 

There  were  very  few  people  about ;  but,  as  Churchill  and 
his  guide  walked  slowly  on,  people  seemed  to  come  flitting 
like  phantoms,  all  silent  of  footfall,  voiceless,  taking  strange 
shapes  as  they  merged  from  shadow,  moving  through  a 
patch  of  moonlight  and  melting  in  further  shadow.  Then 
one  began  to  notice  men  standing  in  doorways;  men  quite 
unexpectedly  crossed  the  road  just  in  front  of  one,  or  passed 
out  of  one  house  into  another,  as  if  the  whole  district  was 
the  common  dwelling  of  one  vast  wicked  family. 

"We  must  not  go  back  the  way  we  came,"  whispered 
Mr.  Smart.  "They  are  very  easily  upset.  If  they  fancied 
they  were  being  watched  or  exhibited,  it  would  get  on  their 
nerves Hush  I" 

A  large  man  and  a  very  small  woman  had  come  out  of  a 
beer-shop  at  a  corner  and  were  now  walking  by  their  sides. 
The  man  was  like  Bill  Sikes  and  nobody  else  to  be  met  with 
in  fact  or  fiction.  The  woman  was  middle-aged,  dressed  in 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP      99 

a  black  gown  and  bonnet,  and  she  looked  like  an  old- 
fashioned  pew-opener  who  had  been  left  out  in  the  rain  for 
weeks  and  got  so  sodden  and  dilapidated  tJ'at  birds  or  boys 
might  mistake  her  for  a  scarecrow.  Churchill  guessed,  but 
tried  not  to  believe,  that  she  was  one  of  the  unhappy  persons 
described  by  Smart — the  professional  siren  of  the  slums. 

The  man  spoke,  but  although  close  to  him  one  could  not 
hear  his  words. 

"How  was  I  to  leave,"  expostulated  the  woman,  "with- 
out saying  good-night  to  'im?" 

The  man  spoke  again,  and  again  inaudibly. 

"I  merely  addressed  the  word  good-night  to  him.  That 
is  all  I  said  to  him." 

The  man  spoke  once  more,  growling;  and  the  woman 
seemed  to  trot  forward  as  a  dog  does  when  sworn  at  by  its 
master ;  and  then  both  of  them  vanished.  Where  ?  Utterly 
impossible  to  say.  Round  an  unseen  corner,  through  a  dark 
entry,  behind  the  red  curtain  of  another  tavern.  They 
seemed  to  be  walking  close  by,  a  little  way  ahead,  and  at 
one's  side  again,  and  in  a  moment  they  were  gone,  and 
Churchill  and  Smart  walked  on  alone. 

So  they  went  through  street  after  street,  now  near  the 
viaduct  arches,  now  losing  sight  of  this  landmark,  and  Smart 
remarked  in  a  whisper  that  sounded  huskily  tremulous,  "The 
— the  bother  is  that  it's  so  easy  to  lose  one's  way.  Let 
us  turn  down  here.  No.  I  am  wrong.  That's  a  cul-de-sac. 
We  must  keep  on." 

Then  presently  he  paused,  irresolute.  "I — I  think  we 
must  retrace  our  steps — though  I  don't  like  doing  it.  W-what 
do  you  think  ?" 

Churchill  was  not  given  time  to  answer.  For  at  that 
moment  there  came  from  somewhere  quite  near,  a  piercingly 
shrill  cry.  It  was  the  scream  of  a  woman,  and  scream  fol- 
lowed scream. 

Truly  it  made  one's  blood  run  cold;  it  seemed  to  be  the 
concentrated  expression  of  all  one's  accumulated  horror; 
the  thing  that  one  had  been  fearing  and  anticipating  and 
vainly  hoping  that  one  might  somehow  escape  being  forced 
to  hear. 

"It  is  this  way.  Yes,  it  is  here."  Churchill  had  rushed 
frantically  and  Smart  had  clung  to  him,  impeding  him.  Now 


100  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

Churchill  shook  him  off  at  the  entrance  of  a  court.  In  the 
moonlight  they  could  both  see  two  women  fighting  desper- 
ately, while  four  or  five  men  stood  calmly  watching. 

"You — you'd  much  better  not  try  to  interfere,"  stam- 
mered Smart.  "I  wish  you  wouldn't.  Then  I — I'll  run  for 
the  police." 

Only  by  their  garments  could  one  have  known  that  they 
were  really  women.  The  shrieks  had  quieted  down  to  snarl- 
ings,  squealings,  gasps,  and  they  clutched  and  tore  at  each 
other  now,  with  the  wild  fury  of  animals.  The  men,  hands 
in  pockets,  watched  without  excitement ;  neither  applauding 
nor  criticising;  merely  shifting  their  position  in  order  to 
make  room  when  the  combatants  swung  or  rolled  towards 
them. 

"You  brutes,  help  me."  Churchill,  dragging  at  one  of 
the  women,  felt  the  disgust,  the  anger,  and  the  impotence 
that  are  usually  experienced  by  anybody  who,  without  a 
strong  stick,  and  unaided,  attempts  to  stop  a  dog  fight.  "Help 
me,  you  blackguards." 

"No  business  of  yours,"  said  a  man  apathetically  and  not 
in  the  least  wrath  fully.  "It's  our  business." 

"Then  do  your  business.    Quick.    Catch  hold  of  her." 

The  man,  with  leisurely  movements,  stepped  forward,  put 
his  arms  round  the  waist  of  the  woman  who  still  remained 
free  and  who  was  taking  every  advantage  of  her  freedom  ; 
and  now  he  quietly  drew  her  away. 

"There,  stow  it."  And  another  man  began  to  curse  both 
women  heartily.  "Jer  see — get  indoors." 

Churchill  looked  round,  and  the  women  were  there  no 
more.  Like  dogs  they  had  crept  to  kennel  at  the  master's 
voice.  He  looked  round  again,  and  all  the  men  except  one 
were  gone  too. 

^  To  this  last  remaining  man  he  talked  for  a  little  while,  at 
first  passionately,  then  quietly  and  pleadingly ;  but  he  elicited 
the  very  slighest  response.  He  could  not  see  the  man's 
face,  but  he  knew  quite  well  that  it  was  dull,  expressionless, 
without  thought  and  with  very  little  life. 

"I  pray  you  not  to  let  them  do  it  again.  I  will  come  back 
and  see  you  all  by  daylight.  I  want  to  know  you.  I  mean 
nothing  but  kindness  to  you.  I  had  no  right  to  speak  roughly 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  101 

to  you.  For  that  I  ask  your  pardon.  .  .  .  Will  you  shake 
hands — to  show  you  don't  mind?" 

The  man  spat  upon  the  ground,  and  shook  hands  as 
requested.  His  hand  was  limp  and  nerveless. 

"Good-night." 

"Goo'-night,  sir." 

Churchill  slowly  made  his  way  out  through  the  dark, 
silent  streets,  and  a  throbbing  pity  filled  his  breast.  He 
thought,  "How  could  these  poor  souls  be  otherwise  than 
coarse  and  dirty  and  fierce,  living  under  such  conditions? 
If  they  were  pure  and  clean,  they  would  go  mad  from 
despair.  And  probably  it  is  not  true  that  they  are  nearly 
as  bad  as  Smart  says,  and  all  his  notions  about  their  watch- 
ing one  and  being  ready  to  rob  or  kill  any  stranger  are 
just  cowardly  nonsense." 

Certainly  no  one  displayed  the  least  disposition  to  molest 
him,  or  even  to  look  at  him,  as  he  retraced  his  steps ;  and  two 
or  three  people  of  whom  he  inquired  the  way  answered 
civilly  and  '.cnsibly. 

At  the  canal  bridge  he  met  Smart  hurrying  towards  him 
with  two  stalwari  policemen.  The  policemen  laughed  when 
they  heard  they  were  not  wanted,  and  said  it  was  exactly 
what  they  had  told  "his  reverence." 

Going  past  the  cheerful  shops  again,  Churchill  remained 
silent,  but  Smart  talked  volubly. 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  it  ended  all  right.  What 
should  I  have  said  to  the  vicar?  I'm  sure  you  acted  very 
pluckily — but,  you  know,  you  really  did  a  very  reckless 
thing.  I  don't  wish  to  exaggerate,  but  you  might  have  been 
torn  to  pieces." 

Churchill  was  struggling  hard  to  repress  his  contempt, 
telling  himself  that  he  must  not  judge  others.  Yet  he  could 
not  help  thinking,  "If  this  man  is  a  coward  he  should  not 
pretend  to  be  a  priest  of  the  Church  militant.  Sooner  or 
later  he  will  disgrace  himself.  Indeed,  his  faith  must  be 
weak,  or  his  heart  would  be  stouter.  But  I  will  not  judge ; 
I  will  not  think  evil." 

At  the  place  where  the  trams  stopped,  that  same  black- 
coated  man  was  still  preaching.  Nobody  listened,  nobody 
cared,  nobody  seemed  to  be  aware  of  his  existence.  His 


102  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP' 

voice  sounded  harsh  and  weary;  his  eyes  were  fixed  in  a 
glassy  stare,  as  if  he  saw  nothing  and  heard  nothing  of  the 
movements  and  noises  all  round  him,  as  if  he  thought  of 
nothing  on  earth  either  near  or  far,  but  was  solely  con- 
cerned with  the  heaven  and  hell  about  which  he  went  on 
ranting. 


XIV 

THE  Saturday  club  was  held  in  the  large  ground-floor 
room  of  the  St.  Bede's  Church  Institute,  a  building  that 
contained  accommodation  and  served  as  headquarters  for 
various  other  clubs,  guilds,  and  parish  working  bodies.  The 
peculiarity  of  this  week-end  club  lay  in  the  fact  that  it  had 
no  regular  members ;  it  was  open  to  any  one  who  cared  to 
come  in  from  the  streets — that  is,  any  unintoxicated  passer- 
by who  promised  either  by  implication  or  formal  vow,  to 
behave  himself  "like  a  gentleman"  when  inside.  Mr. 
Walsden  used  to  stand  sometimes  outside  the  door,  inviting 
all  the  male  half  of  the  population  to  avail  themselves  of 
his  hospitality.  Ladies  were  not  admitted,  if  they  could 
be  kept  out;  but  it  had  happened  more  than  once  that  a 
dozen  or  twenty  bold  and  unblushing  representatives  of  the 
fair  sex  forcibly  imposed  their  company  and  caused  great 
unpleasantness.  Also  on  several  occasions  the  rowdy-dowdy 
boys  had  made  a  raid,  smashing  glass,  furniture  and  gas 
brackets. 

At  such  times  Mr.  Walsden  sought  no  redress  from  the 
law,  refused  to  prosecute,  scarcely  complained  to  any  one; 
but  just  mended  window  panes,  repaired  the  bagatelle  board, 
bought  new  benches,  and  next  Saturday  night  came  up 
smiling  again  after  his  punishment. 

"Step  in,  Jim.  Glad  to  see  you.  A  friend  of  yours  ?  Very 
glad  to  see  him  too.  .  .  .  Good-evening,  sir.  .  .  .  No ;  I  don't 
know  you,  but  I  shall  be  pleased  to  make  your  acquaintance. 
If  you  have  nothing  better  to  do,  step  inside  and  join  us. 
Smoke  your  pipe,  play  a  game  of  draughts  or  dominos — and 
have  some  coffee,  if  you  like,  one  penny  per  cup.  No  sermon, 
no  hymns,  no  collection." 

He  loved  his  club,  and  always  said  that  as  a  humanising 
influence  he  considered  it  invaluable.  When  people  had 
once  come,  they  nearly  always  came  again;  and  after  one 
had  got  to  know  them  at  the  club  it  was  often  an  easy  task 
to  make  them  go  to  church. 

103 


104  THE  MIRROR  AND!  THE  LAMP 

The  room  was  fairly  full  when  Churchill  arrived,  and  as  a 
newcomer  to  the  parish  he  received  considerable  attention. 
Walsden  and  Gardiner  introduced  him  to  honoured  fre- 
quenters, and  others  freely  introduced  themselves.  Especially 
a  young  man  with  brown  eyes  and  an  insinuating  manner 
made  continuous  advances,  acting  as  self-appointed  master  of 
ceremonies,  and  explaining  and  expounding  quite  evident 
matters.  This  young  man  proved  a  great  nuisance;  first 
because  he  plainly  desired  to  extract  a  gift  of  money,  and 
Churchill  had  been  solemnly  exhorted  to  give  no  money 
to  anybody,  and  secondly  because  he  checked  the  expan- 
sive confidence  of  many  who  were  ready  and  anxious  to 
expand.  In  two  minutes  Churchill  understood  that  all  these 
people  took  intense,  pleasure  in  speaking  about  themselves 
and  their  private  affairs,  and  that  much  might  be  learned  by 
quietly  listening  to  them. 

They  were  nearly  all  of  them  undersized ;  very  few  were 
fairly  shaped,  and  among  the  elder  men  the  slow  distorting 
effects  of  a  toil  that  is  greater  than  the  physical  strength  that 
meets  it  were  painfully  visible.  Churchill  noticed  one  tall 
man,  who  stood  with  his  bowler  hat  tilted  so  far  back  that 
it  seemed  to  stand  on  the  back  of  his  neck,  and  his  hands 
deep-plunged  in  his  trousers  pockets,  while  he  grinned  as  if 
enormously  amused. 

"Dam  funny  thing,  this,"  he  said  to  Churchill,  uttering 
the  words  slowly  and  thickly.  "I  can't  get  the  hang  of  it. 
Never  bin  here  before.  The  guv'nor  says,  why  not?  He 
says  come  in  here.  And  here  I  am.  I  don't  mind  it — from 
what  I  see  of  it. 

"  'Is  employment,"  said  the  brown-eyed  young  man,  "is 
the  spirits  and  wine  trade — carrying  and  lifting  of  the 
barrels.  The  temptation  in  that  trade  is  to  get  on  the  drink, 
and  you  can  see  fer  yerself,  'e  'as  done  it." 

"Who  do  you  say  is  drunk?"  asked  the  tall  man. 

"I  don't  say  nothing  for  you  to  worry  about,"  said  the 
brown-eyed  young  man.  "But  you  'ave  'ad  yer  drop,  old 
mate,  'an  you  know  it." 

"I  have;"  and  the  tall  man  grinned  good-humouredly. 
Then  he  became  very  angry.  "But  if  I  have — yes,  if  I  have, 
what  the hell's  it  got  to  do  with  you  ?" 

"Language,    please,"    said    Mr.    Gardiner,    immediately 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  105 

crossing  to  the  raised  voice.  "Moderate  language — that  is 
our  rule.  .  .  .  How  are  you  getting  on,  Churchill  ?  Here  is 
some  one  who  must  be  presented  to  you.  Mr.  Philbrick, 
this  is  Mr.  Churchill." 

"He  is  a  very  nice  vurchius  ole  gentleman,"  said  the 
brown-eyed  man  in  a  patronising  tone. 

Mr.  Philbrick  seemed  indeed  a  most  respectable  old  chap. 
He  was  clean-shaved,  with  a  fringe  of  grey  hair  under  his 
chin,  and  a  big  black  scarf  worn  round  his  neck  above  a 
collarless  flannel  shirt  and  hanging  down  over  his  jacket. 
When  talking  he  screwed  up  his  eyes,  wrinkled  his  whole 
face,  and  put  an  extraordinary  amount  of  deep  meaning  into 
his  manner,  while  he  pointed  over  his  shoulder  with  his 
pipe,  nodded  or  jerked  an  arm  significantly.  At  the  moment 
he  was  profoundly  interested  in  a  game  of  draughts,  and 
he  pantomimed  excessive  delight  when  one  of  the  players, 
a  fat-faced,  seedy-looking  youth,  got  his  man  beat.  This 
result  was  generally  admitted  by  all  the  bystanders,  although 
the  defeated  player,  a  middle-aged  bearded  man,  never 
looked  up,  but  continued  desperately  to  examine  the  board, 
hoping  still  to  find  some  loop-hole  of  escape. 

"It's  a  friend  o'  mine,"  said  Mr.  Philbrick,  indicating  the 
conqueror  with  his  pipe.  "I  taught  him  the  game  myself. 
.  .  .  Oh,  my  boy,  you  could  o'  ruffed  him  there." 

Everybody  protested.     "Don't  intermeddle.     No  tellin'." 

The  fat-faced  youth  said,  "/  seen  it — he  might  o'  ruffed 
me  too." 

"He  seen  it  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Philbrick ;  "or  I  shouldn't 
V  spoken." 

"But  you  did  speak,"  said  the  defeated  player;  "an* 

you're  a  silly for  yer  pains.  Why  can't  yer  hold  yer 

tongue?" 

"Language,  please,"  cried  Gardiner.  "My  dear  friends, 
do  moderate  your  language.  What  is  the  sense  of  swearing 
at  every  other  word?" 

Mr.  Philbrick  drew  away  from  the  draught-players,  and 
presently  he  was  telling  Churchill  the  story  of  his  conversion 
to  the  Christian  faith. 

He  was  a  widower  who  until  two  years  ago  had  been  ex- 
tremely prosperous ;  then  health  and  work  failed  together, 
and  he  fell  into  such  dire  want  that  he  nearly  died  of  starva- 


106  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

don.  "It  was  that  or  the  work'uss,"  he  said,  nodding  and 
winking  prodigiously.  The  landlord  came  to  him  in  his  room 
and  told  him  that  he  must  clear  out  at  the  end  of  the  week. 
"Well,  I  says,  I  make  no  fuss,  I  offer  no  blackguarding. 
Just  so.  If  I  can't  pay — nothing  else  to  do.  So  you  needn't 
puff  and  blow  about  it. 

"That  was  the  Monday — my  chest  very  bad  too,  and  the 
snow  on  the  ground ;  and  I  thinks,  'Off  with  you,  Philbrick, 
and  try  and  earn  a  bob  along  with  the  rest,  road-scraping — 
or  else  it's  the  work'uss  Saturday  night.'  But,  sir,  I  couldn't 
stomach  it.  You'll  believe  me,  it  wasn't  the  shirks,  for  I  do 
assure  you  I've  worked  very  hard  in  my  time.  Any  one  '11 
tell  you  the  same  as  how  old  Mr.  Philbrick  isn't  a  shirker. 
But  I  was  just  tired  and  sick  of  it.  So,  thinks  I" — and  he 
lightly  tapped  Churchill  on  the  chest  with  his  pipe  and 
stopped  to  chuckle  merrily — "thinks  I,  'I'll  just  dodge  the 
work'uss  and  everything  else  along  of  it.' " 

Then  he  described  how  he  retired  to  bed,  ate  his  last  bit 
of  food  in  bed,  smoked  his  last  screw  of  tobacco,  and  lay 
there  quite  comfortable,  dozing  and  musing.  Hunger  at 
first  was  hard  to  support ;  but  he  did  not  suffer  as  much  as 
he  expected ;  after  three  days  he  became  light-headed.  "An' 
by  Friday  afternoon  I  was  to  the  naked  eye  no  more  than 
a  corpse." 

On  Friday  night,  however,  Mr.  Walsden  came  in  a  mys- 
teriously providential  manner  and  rescued  him.  "I  never 
rightly  understood  how  he  found  me,  sir.  But  it  was  some- 
thing to  do  with  Christmas — which  was  falling  due  the 
Sunday.  An'  Mr.  Walsden's  very  particular  about  supplying 
a  bit  of  Christmas  dinner  to  them  as  else  wouldn't  get 
none.  I  took  it  very  kind  of  him,  and  I  like  these  religious 
gentlemen.  Yes,  he  done  more  for  me  than  others.  I  assure 
you,  sir,  there  was  two  men  in  the  same  house  who  owed 
me  money,  and  never  so  much  as  climb  the  stairs  to  ask  how 
I  was.  Three  doors  down  the  street  I  had  another  debitor, 
who  owed  me  four  pounds  odd — and  not  a  sign  from  him 
neither.  But  Mr.  Walsden  brought  me  back  to  life  and  set 
me  on  my  legs  again,  and  in  return  for  his  kindness  I 
accepted  of  the  religion — a  thing  I'd  never  done  till  then." 

"And  you  feel  the  comfort  of  it,  Mr.  Philbrick  ?" 

"I  do,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Philbrick,  with  a  glance  and  an  accent 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  107 

that  was  absolutely  convincing  in  regard  to  his  sincerity.  "I 
ask  no  questions.  What  I  bin  told  I  believe.  If  it's  good 
enough  for  an  educated  gentleman  like  Mr.  Walsden,  it's 
good  enough  for  me.  I  take  my  sacrament  along  o'  the  rest, 
an'  I  enjoy  it." 

"You  may  trust  him,  sir,"  said  the  brown-eyed  young 
man,  again  at  Churchill's  elbow.  "I've  never  known  a  pack 
of  lies  come  out  of  the  mouth  of  Mr.  Philbrick." 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  chap,  "Richard  knows  me  right 
enough.  I'm  pretty  well  known  in  these  parts." 

There  was  something  very  attractive  in  Mr.  Philbrick, 
and  Churchill  determined  if  possible  to  cultivate  his  acquaint- 
ance. 

During  the  course  of  the  evening  he  talked  with  other  con- 
verts, young  and  old,  and  was  struck  in  every  case  by  the 
astonishing  effect  upon  them  that  had  been  made  by  hearing 
the  story  of  Christ's  life  and  death.  Most  of  them — in- 
credible as  that  might  seem — had  heard  it,  or  at  any  rate 
really  listened  to  it,  for  the  first  time  from  Walsden;  and 
they  talked  of  the  divine  tragedy  just  as  though  it  had  hap- 
pened only  the  other  day.  Speaking  of  Judas  Iscariot,  they 
grew  hot  with  indignation,  calling  him  "dirty  dog,"  and 
saying,  "The  rope's  too  good  for  'is  sort,  sir." 

A  fish  porter  in  a  tattered  football  jersey  told  Churchill 
that  his  great  pleasure  was  to  go  fishing  in  the  River  Lea  on 
Sunday,  and  this  sport  had  clashed  with  his  religious  duties. 
"I  like  to  get  off  with  my  rod  and  tackle  as  early  as  I  can 
and  make  a  day  of  it ;  and  when  Mr.  Walsden  asked  me  to 
go  and  take  the  bread  and  wine  down  at  the  church  Sunday 
morning  he  said,  'There's  no  reason  you  shouldn't  come,  and 
then  have  your  fishing  after/  'But  no/  I  said,  'that  would 
be  acting  Judus.  If  I  take  it,  I  shall  chuck  the  job  for  the 
day.  I  shan't  take  it,  and  go  a-fishing/  That's  right,  isn't  it, 
sir?" 

"Did  I  'ear  you  mention  Judy  'Scariut?"  said  some  one 
else.  "'£  was  a  blighter,  if  you  like,  sir,  wasn't  'e?" 

"S'truth,"  said  another,  "he  wanted  to  have  it  given  him 
in  the  neck  if  ever  a  bloke  did.  Dirty  dog." 

Churchill  could  not  get  away  from  Richard,  the  brown- 
eyed  young  man,  although  disliking  him  as  a  hypocrite,  and 
at  last  almost  explicitly  stating  that  no  money  would  be 


108  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

extracted.  Indeed  the  unfavourable  impression  made  by 
Richard  led  to  a  rash  generalisation  that  among  these  people 
those  with  light  or  clear-coloured  eyes  appeared  to  be 
trusting  and  trustworthy,  whereas  those  with  opaque- 
coloured  eyes  were  all  humbugs,  if  not  worse.  Mr.  Phil- 
brick  and  the  fish  porter  had  transparently  clear  eyes,  but 
Richard's  eyes  were  as  impenetrable  as  bits  of  brown  pebble. 

"I  'ope,"  said  Richard,  "I  'ave  not  offended  you,  sir," 
when  closing  time  drew  near.  "You  were  so  very  kind 
when  you  come  in,  but  now  you  seem  to  turn  against  me. 
I  expect  it's  back-biters  bin  poisoning  your  ears  against 
me." 

Churchill  said  no  one  had  traduced  Richard;  and  then, 
having  obtained  permission  from  Walsden  to  do  so,  he  stood 
coffee  and  rock  cakes  to  Richard  and  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany. 

"This  makes  me  very  'appy,"  said  Richard,  sidling  up, 
cup  in  hand;  and  until  the  club  meeting  terminated  he 
suffered  no  one  to  come  between  him  and  the  new  curate. 

"I  'ope  I  shall  never  fall  to  be  a  cadger,"  he  said ;  "and  I 
scorn  any  one  as  should  so  accuse  me.  He  wouldn't  do  it 
twice — not  if  it  was  to  my  face.  I  b'long  to  a  good  fam'ly — 
an'  I  often  say  it  would  make  a  book,  would  my  fam'ly,  if 
written  down  in  a  truthful  spirit.  But  the  times  are  hard 
against  one,  though  you  work  till  you  sink  by  the  wayside.  I 
sim  to  'ave  'ad  nothing  except  trouble  and  losses ;"  and  he 
raised  his  hand  to  shield  his  mouth  while  speaking  con- 
fidentially. "I'm  gettin'  up  a  subscription  in  the  fam'ly  to 
prervide  me  wiv  a  new  barrer  .  .  .  My  eldest  sister  sent  me 
five  bob  at  Christmas.  Very  kind  ov  'er,  I'm  sure ;  but  all 
the  same  she  can  afford  it.  She's  a  cook  in  a  lady's  mansion 
at  Sevenoaks.  I  seen  it  pers'nally — five  servants  employed. 
From  me  brothers  I  asked  nothing — knowing  that  was  what 
I  should  get.  Jack  drinks — but,  mind  you,  there's  never 
bin  heavy  drinkin'  in  our  fam'ly.  No,  as  I  state,  we've  bin 
a  fine  lot  o'  men.  It's  the  girls  that  'ave  mostly  disgraced  us. 

"Me  two  aunts  finished  as  a  burden  on  the  rates.  Me 
mother  is  a  proud  woman,  and  felt  it  at  the  time — same  as 
she  did  when  Mabel  went  to  the  Orspital.  Me  sister  Mabel 
was  the  prettiest  piece  o'  goods  at  fourteen  you  ever  set  eyes 
on.  If  you  looked  at  'er,  you  'ad  to  kiss  'er.  Fawther  used 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  109 

to  say,  'Leave  off.  You  growing  lads  must  remember  she's 
yer  sister.'  .  .  .  Mr.  Yates — he  was  a  gas-fitter — fell  in  love 
with  her,  and  kep'  her  faithful  in  Ajax  Buildings,  deserting 
his  own  wife  and  kids  to  do  so,  from  her  seventeenth  birth- 
day till  he  died. 

"Then  she  went  on  the  streets,  an'  never  'ad  'nother  bit  o' 
luck.  Mind  you,  Mabel  felt  her  pride  too.  Wouldn't  never 
come  and  see  'er  mother  unless  she  could  bring  a  present  in 
'er  'and.  Mother  never  rightly  knew  'ow  she  was  faring, 
till,  as  I  tell  you,  they  fetched  'er  to  the  Orspital,  an'  she  see 
her  laid  in  the  bed  dying  and  disfigured  wiv  the  disease. 
Mother  said  it  give  'er  a  turn  she'd  carry  to  her  grave — and 
she  rounded  on  fawther,  accusing  him  of  the  vice  of  the 
women  of  'is  family  which  he  had  transferred  into  the  blood 
of  Mab. 

"Mind  you,  mother  give  fawther  trouble  in  his  time, 
though  so  respectable  and  proud  in  her  old  age.  Fawther 
has  told  me  wiv  'is  own  lips  that  he  couldn't  have  a  lodger 
in  the  house  but  what  the  usual  annoyance  followed;  and 
that  when  he  chastised  'er  it  o'ny  made  'er  carry  on  the 
worse.  .  .  ." 

Then  Richard  turned  up  his  brown  eyes  and  spoke  sanc- 
timoniously. 

"But,  sir,  it  is  all  the  will  of  Gawd,  as  Mr.  Walsden 
teaches — an'  if  I  can  subscribe  meself  a  new  barrer  by  Lady- 
day  I'll  bless  'is  'oly  name." 


XV 

FOR  a  year  while  Churchill  remained  a  deacon,  and  for 
nearly  half  a  year  after  he  had  received  the  priest's  com- 
mission he  worked  as  if  at  one  of  those  crushingly  impossible 
tasks  that  torment  sick  men  in  their  dreams.  He  was  always 
busy  and  always  baffled.  Each  new  day  wiped  out  the  last. 
There  was  scarcely  time  to  begin  things,  never  time  to  finish 
things. 

After  staying  a  little  while  at  the  vicarage  he  had  secured 
a  room  for  himself  in  a  block  of  model  dwellings  beyond  the 
southern  boundary  of  the  parish.  In  the  parish  itself  not  a 
room  was  available.  But  here  at  Bentley  House  he  succeeded 
in  obtaining  decent  accommodation,  with  quiet,  peacable 
neighbours  of  the  highest  class — permanent  porters  from  the 
London  Docks,  Corporation  roadmen,  van-drivers  and  fac- 
tory hands — whose  wives  were  willing  to  sweep  and  clean 
for  him,  and  would  have  cooked  for  him  also,  had  he  desired 
it.  Indeed,  given  leisure,  he  might  have  made  himself  suf- 
ficiently comfortable  here ;  but,  for  want  of  it,  the  packing- 
cases  that  contained  his  books  had  not  yet  been  opened, 
no  additions  had  been  made  to  the  first  sticks  of  furniture 
hastily  purchased,  the  floor  still  demanded  the  carpet  he 
had  promised  it,  and  the  one  solitary  ornament  was  the 
framed  photograph  of  his  mother  that  hung  above  the  iron 
bed.  It  did  not  matter.  He  could  not  have  lolled  in  arm- 
chairs or  read  books.  Every  morning  early  he  used  to  go 
up  to  the  top  landing  of  the  house  just  to  get  a  glimpse  of 
the  open  sky,  to  see  the  shadowy  outline  of  Tower  Bridge 
across  the  forest  of  roofs,  or  the  topmasts  of  ships  on  the 
invisible  river;  then,  wondering  and  thanking  God  that  the 
sun  still  shone  in  spite  of  human  wickedness,  he  went  slowly 
down  the  long  flights  of  stone  steps  and  out  into  the  smoke 
and  dirt  and  drab-toned  misery.  Late  at  night  he  returned 
to  lie  down,  glad  that  he  was  too  tired  to  think,  and  yet 
sighing  when  he  felt  that  the  burden  of  an  overladen  world 

110 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  111 

was  about  to  slip  from  his  shoulders,  and  that  for  a  few 
hours  he  would  forget  all  the  shame,  the  pain,  the  horror. 

Three  or  four  times  a  week  he  wrote  home  to  St.  Dun- 
stan's,  pouring  out  his  heart  freely,  saying  the  things  he 
could  only  say  to  that  dear  one;  but  lack  of  time  nearly 
always  drove  his  pen  and  made  broken  incoherent  scrawls 
of  what  would  otherwise  have  been  long  thoughtful  letters. 

"Dearest  and  best  of  mothers,  how  I  yearn  to  fly 
down  to  you  as  fast  as  the  fastest  train  can  bring  me. 
But  I  must  not  yield  to  temptation.  I  must  not  go. 

"To  answer  your  two  urgent  questions:  Yes,  I  am 
very  well  in  health,  and  Walsden  does  praise  me — far 
more  than  I  deserve.  But  his  praise  is  encouraging.  .  .*. 

"...  I  feel  that  every  day  and  all  day  long  I  am 
eating  of  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  Evil  Knowledge.  But 
it  is  good  to  know.  One  cannot  know  too  much ;  and, 
although  I  shrink  and  recoil,  I  pray  that  unconsciously 
I  am  growing  stronger  all  the  while.  I  see  that  without 
this  experience  I  should  have  never  been  worth  any- 
thing in  the  higher  work.  And,  my  darling,  it  is  not 
going  to  last  for  ever.  Soon  you  and  I  will  be  together 
again,  and  I  shall  look  back  on  all  this  as  a  hard  lesson 
that  was  well  worth  taking.  Our  separation  will  only 
make  our  joy  in  union  the  greater." 

She  added  to  his  trouble  when  now  and  then  she  spoke 
of  her  loneliness,  and  he  went  about  his  work  tortured  by  a 
sense  of  divided  duty.  He  felt  that  he  was  neglecting  her, 
and  yet  knew  that  he  would  not  be  truly  worthy  of  her  love 
if  he  could  not  trust  it  to  pardon  such  neglect.  She  offered 
to  come  to  London  to  see  him,  to  stay  for  a  week  or  two  at 
Bentley  House,  if  he  would  engage  a  nice  bedroom  and  sit- 
ting-room for  her ;  but  he  was  forced  to  refuse  these  offers. 
Dear  soul,  she  imagined  Bentley  House  as  a  modest  but 
well-managed  private  hotel,  such  as  those  that  economical 
folk  patronise  at  crowded  watering  places.  It  would  not 
do  to  let  her  see  the  reality.  Besides,  her  presence  even  for 
a  day  would  infallibly  weaken  him:  he  would  want  to  go 
straight  home  with  her. 

This,  as  he  understood  well  enough,  was  the  paramount 


112  THE  MIRROR  AND.  THE  LAMP 

temptation  that  has  to  be  fought  by  all  workers  in  places  like 
St.  Bede's — the  sudden  and  almost  overwhelming  climax  of 
a  gradually  accumulated  desire  to  turn  one's  back  and  go. 

"Forgive  me,  my  dearest,  if  I  say  little  about  myself. 
The  reason  is  because  there  is  really  so  little  to  say. 
I  go  on  learning,  learning,  trying  with  all  my  might  to 
read  the  book  of  life  and  see  the  Master's  message 
stand  out  clear  in  every  page  I  turn. 

"As  to  money — well,  I  am  spending  it  very  care- 
fully, and  only  under  the  advice  of  Walsden.  As  to 
spending  much  on  oneself — that  is  out  of  the  question. 
If  one  wished  to  do  it,  one  could  not.  There  are  literally 
no  opportunities.  I  subscribe  to  all  the  church  funds, 
giving  most  where  the  need  is  greatest,  and  denying 
myself  the  pleasure  of  obeying  personal  inclination. 
That  is  a  part  of  the  lesson  one  has  to  learn,  and  it 
seems  easier  to  learn  here  than  anywhere  in  the  world. 
One  must  give  in  order  to  do  good  and  not  to  secure  a 
temporary  joy." 

Matters  so  well  known  to  economists  that  they  have  long 
since  become  trite  commonplaces  struck  him  with  all  the 
force  of  a  personal  discovery ;  and  then  in  his  letters  he 
would  have  sudden  outbursts  against  politicians  and  the 
whole  machinery  of  government. 

"Why  don't  these  so-called  statesmen  come  and  live 
here  as  I  am  doing?  All  their  laws  and  regulations 
for  the  improvement  of  the  common  lot  are  an  utter 
failure.  They  could  not  be  otherwise.  They  are  made 
by  people  who  don't  understand  and  enforced  by  peo- 
ple who  don't  care.  Evidences  of  private  charity  and 
benevolence  are  conspicuous  wherever  you  look,  but  it 
is  all  of  no  use.  All  along  the  big  roads,  far  out  beyond 
the  East  India  Docks,  there  are  innumerable  institutions 
founded  by  generous  private  enterprise;  they  jostle 
one  another,  and  more  of  them  are  always  being  built — 
houses  of  every  religious  denomination,  small  hospitals, 
nursing  establishments,  places  of  supervised  entertain- 


113 

ment,  sailors'  homes,  free  libraries,  everything  con- 
ceivable, but  nothing  of  permanent  value  or  in  any  way 
capable  of  really  lifting  the  unhappy  mass  of  the  peo- 
ple. When  I  pass  them  I  think  of  the  scenic  decorations 
that  we  used  to  smile  at  in  villa  gardens  in  Italy — the 
painted  fagade  of  a  sham  palace  put  up  to  conceal  some 
eyesore  that  might  shock  too  sensitive  visitors.  So  here 
the  long  lines  of  these  philanthropic  palliatives  that  are 
made  of  smart  red  brick  or  pompous  stone,  and  deco- 
rated with  marble  slabs  to  commemorate  a  name,  serve 
to  hide  abomination  from  strangers  who  ride  by  in 
trams  or  on  top  of  buses.  But  from  us  who  know, 
they  hide  nothing.  We  see  through  brick  and  stone 
right  into  the  abyss.  .  .  . 

"Thousands  of  streets  with  each  house  exactly  like 
any  other,  in  every  street  a  thousand  people  each  leading 
exactly  the  same  life ;  the  heart  beaten  out  of  them  by 
monotonous  labour,  the  soul  darkened  by  incessant 
fear ;  underpaid,  underfed,  mercilessly  kept  from  clean- 
liness and  health,  foolishly  driven  to  sin  or  crime; 
stunted  during  youth,  crushed  during  their  poor  ma- 
turity, and  broken  on  the  wheel  of  shame  when  old 
age  overtakes  them,  when  they  can  work  no  longer, 
when  their  children  and  their  children's  children  have 
pushed  them  from  their  places  in  the  dock  or  the  fac- 
tory or  the  sweater's  den.  This  is  not  a  highly  coloured 
picture  of  one's  excited  imagination.  It  is  what  the 
politicians — making  some  new  law — call  the  undeniable 
and  regrettable  state  of  affairs.  Yes,  it  is  the  state  of 
affairs  two  thousand  years  after  the  message  of  peace 
and  goodwill  to  all  men.  And  nothing  can  alter  it, 
nothing  can  ameliorate  it,  nothing  can  really  touch  it, 
until  mankind  awakes  to  the  impious  wickedness  of  it. 

"I  talk  to  our  spouting  socialists,  democrats,  and 
social  anarchists,  and  I  wonder  they  are  not  red-hot 
revolutionaries.  When  they  tell  me  of  things  actually 
happening,  they  talk  calmly  and  soberly;  it  is  /  who 
burn  and  tremble,  clench  my  fists  beneath  my  cape, 
and  go  away  murmuring  menaces  of  divine  wrath.  The 
things  that  happen •  But  they  are  what  I  cannot 


114 

speak  of,  even  to  you.  I  write  them  in  ray  diary  so 
that  I  may  remember,  and  I  dare  not  look  at  them 
again." 

The  first  of  three  entries  in  the  diary,  made  during  the 
course  of  a  single  week,  related  to  a  boy  who  in  the  presence 
of  his  mother  had  been  beaten  by  his  stepfather.  This 
punishment  resulted  in  serious  injury  to  the  child,  and  it 
seemed  probable  that  he  would  be  a  cripple  for  the  remain- 
der of  his  days.  His  offence  had  been  the  spending  of  a 
penny  for  his  own  use  (stale  bread  at  a  baker's  shop)  out 
of  the  pennies  received  while  begging.  The  mother  and 
her  neighbours  said  the  little  rascal  had  been  served  quite 
right,  and  the  world  was  coming  to  a  strange  pass  if  parents 
and  guardians  were  to  be  prevented  from  teaching  young 
people  how  to  behave. 

A  second  entry  described  what  Churchill  saw  one  after- 
noon in  the  Whitechapel  Road  not  far  from  the  London 
Hospital,  whither  he  had  been  to  visit  a  sick  parishioner. 
There  was  a  little  crowd  outside  a  draper's  shop,  and  from 
this  suddenly  burst  a  young  woman  of  about  twenty  who 
began  to  run  as  if  for  her  life,  hotly  pursued  by  a  shop-girl. 
The  crowd  followed  shouting  "Stop  thief."  The  thief  ran 
badly — as  did  the  shop-girl — but  nevertheless  it  was  a  life- 
and-death  hunt.  Soon  the  hunted  one  doubled,  came  across 
the  road,  through  the  traffic,  then  along  the  pavement — 
with  the  large  eyes,  sobbing  breath,  and  weakened  gait  of 
a  sinking  stag.  All  the  world  laughed,  men  threw  their 
hats  and  caps  at  her,  boys  tried  to  trip  her  heels ;  but  two 
big  policemen  were  running  now,  and  they  presently  cap- 
tured her,  marched  her  off,  and  all  was  over.  Really  a 
pitiful  thing  to  see  when  acted  before  your  eyes. 

Churchill  went  with  her  to  the  police  station ;  tried  to  bail 
her  out  and  failed ;  tried  to  get  her  off  when  brought  before 
the  magistrate  and  failed ;  tried  to  save  her  from  hard  labour 
and  failed.  When  her  imprisonment  was  over  he  stood  at 
the  prison  door,  and  they  walked  away  hand  in  hand.  With- 
out asking  Walsden's  advice  on  this  occasion,  he  spent  a  con- 
siderable sum  in  transplanting  the  culprit  to  more  hopeful 
surroundings  and  starting  her  on  an  honest  road. 

But  the  point  of  this  entry  lay  in  the  exact  reasons  that 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  115 

the  young  woman  gave  him  for  how  and  why  she  had 
become  a  thief. 

The  third  entry  was  about  a  girl  who  at  the  age  of  four- 
teen had  been  hired  out  by  her  aunt  as  domestic  servant  to 
"a  Chinese  gentleman  over  Lime'us  way,"  the  aunt  taking  a 
money  payment  in  lieu  of  future  wages.  The  girl  remained 
in  the  Chinese  quarter  for  about  two  years,  during  which 
no  word  was  ever  heard  of  her,  and  then  she  was  brought 
home  and  left  squatting  on  the  doorstep  at  night.  When 
Churchill  saw  her  she  had  been  back  a  good  many  hours, 
and  she  was  squatting  in  a  corner  of  the  room  with  her 
back  to  the  half-circle  of  women-neighbours  who  stood  to 
watch  her  monotonous  antics.  Churchill  went  right  into 
the  corner  to  get  a  good  look  at  her.  She  was  very  thin ;  her 
face  had  a  dullish  yellow  hue  without  a  sign  of  blood,  as 
of  one  who  has  been  for  a  long  time  kept  out  of  reach  of 
daylight;  her  eyes  were  half-closed,  with  the  outer  corners 
seeming  to  lift  spasmodically ;  and  there  she  squatted,  silent, 
impassive,  her  hands  on  her  thighs,  while  she  regularly 
swayed  her  body  from  side  to  side,  and  at  intervals  bowed 
low  into  the  corner,  as  though  before  an  invisible  shrine  or 
altar.  "That's  all  she  does,"  said  the  aunt.  "She  won't  so 
much  as  answer  when  spoken  to.  I  don't  know  whatever 
they've  bin  doing  to  her  to  turn  her  so  stupid,  and  I  wish 
to  goodness  I'd  never  made  the  engagement  for  her.  She 
was  a  bright  sensible  girl  and  beginnin'  to  be  of  use  to  me 
about  the  house — but  you  can  see  she  isn't  likely  to  be  any 
help  to  me  now  if  she  don't  change  her  manners.  .  .  .  Ethel, 
drop  it.  Why  can't  you  drop  it,  and  get  up  and  speak  to  the 
kind  gentleman?  .  .  .  Oh,  blast  the  girl,  I  shall  lose  my 
temper  with  her  before  I've  done.  It  makes  one  sick  and 
giddy  to  watch  her." 

Ethel  was  taken  to  the  Union  infirmary,  thence  drafted 
on  the  morrow  to  a  public  asylum,  where  she  died  in  three 
days. 

Concerning  this  case  Churchill  had  the  honour  of  writing 
to  the  Home  Secretary,  and  somebody  at  the  Home  Office 
had  the  honour  of  acknowledging  the  receipt  of  Mr.  Church- 
ill's letter  and  of  saying  it  should  have  attention.  But  then, 
as  the  attention  seemed  too  slow  in  manifesting  itself, 
Churchill  wanted  to  write  to  the  newspapers  and  get  the 


116  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

local  M.  P.  to  ask  a  question  in  the  House.  Mr.  Walsden, 
however,  thought  it  unadvisable  to  do  so.  There  was  ap- 
parently a  movement  on  foot  to  inaugurate  a  Christian  mis- 
sion among  the  East  End  Chinese,  and  Walsden  seemed  to 
think  that  its  influence  would  be  far  more  efficacious  than  a 
fuss  in  the  newspapers  or  chatter  in  Parliament.  "It  is  easy 
to  raise  public  interest,"  he  said ,  "but  unhappily  it  is  impos- 
sible to  sustain  it.  Everything  is  of  the  hour.  You  know, 
the  public  are  always  being  hammered  at,  and  one  nail  drives 
out  another." 

In  this,  as  in  nearly  everything  else,  Churchill  submitted 
to  the  wisdom  of  his  vicar.  He  was  faithfully  adhering  to 
his  determination  to  treat  Walsden  as  the  commanding 
officer,  and  obedience  and  deference  were  always  becoming 
easier.  Nevertheless  every  check  to  immediate  action,  when 
the  desire  for  action  had  been  caused  by  righteous  indigna- 
tion, produced  in  him  a  most  painful  sense  of  impotence. 
How  can  one  steel  oneself  to  wait  patiently  for  remote  and 
doubtful  methods  of  redress,  if  weakness  cries  for  help  and 
cruelty  struts  defiantly?  Fits  of  depression  fell  upon  him, 
and  there  were  days  on  which  the  sense  of  being  thrall  to 
a  nightmare  dream  became  well  nigh  unbearable. 

At  such  times  he  seemed  to  see  too  clearly,  to  understand 
too  well,  to  generalise  with  a  tormentingly  rapid  precision. 
As  he  passed  people  in  the  streets,  he  seemed  to  be  able  to 
read  their  unhappy  thoughts,  to  be  unable  to  prevent  himself 
from  reading  them.  The  droop  of  a  bricklayer's  shoulders, 
a  haggard  glance  of  a  factory  hand,  as  he  slouched  by,  the 
feeble  grin  and  drunken  lurch  of  a  docker  stumbling  away 
from  a  gin-shop,  told  him  stories  of  entire  lives ;  and  he  used 
to  think,  "Yes,  you  are  all  types.  You  each  of  you  represent 
thousands  and  thousands  of  over-driven  beasts  who  have 
been  given  immortal  souls  but  refused  the  chance  of  heaven." 
This  labourer  is  past  fifty,  and  he  is  typical  of  success ;  he 
has  been  lucky  enough  to  keep  in  regular  employment ;  but 
at  any  moment  now  he  may  lose  his  job.  Then  after  a  long 
agony  of  fruitless  efforts  to  save  his  home,  that  too  may  go. 
He  will  have  passed  into  the  army  of  casual  labour;  in  a 
year  or  so  it  will  be  impossible  to  differentiate  him  from 
the  lifelong  failures ;  the  rapid  descent  will  have  begun,  and 
nothing  will  ever  stop  it.  The  wife  he  once  loved  will  be  a 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  117 

dirty  bundle  of  rags  sleeping  under  arches,  his  sons  may  be 
thieves  and  his  daughters  something  worse,  and  he  himself 
may  drown  in  a  dock  basin  or  die  of  exhaustion  in  a  ditch, 
if,  like  that  old  fellow,  Philbrick,  he  doesn't  hurry  to  the 
workhouse. 

He  thought  of  the  patience,  the  enduring  fortitude,  the 
incessant  self-denial  displayed  by  every  married  couple  who, 
rising  above  the  normal  quagmire  level,  contrived  to  guard 
and  rear  a  fairly  decent  family.  Many  unquestionably  did 
this,  attaining  to  a  fabulous  respectability,  washing  them- 
selves on  week-days,  coming  to  church  on  Sundays.  But 
how  few  they  were — the  total  numbers  of  this  aristocracy 
— when  compared  with  the  myriads  annually  destroyed  by 
the  precariousness  of  employment,  the  prevailing  immoral- 
ity, the  diseases  bred  of  dirt,  the  premature  decay  of 
strength  and  vitality  solely  due  to  the  vile  conditions  of  their 
existence.  Could  nothing  be  done  for  them?  They  them- 
selves asked  but  one  thing,  the  right  to  work,  the  inestimable 
privilege  of  wearing  themselves  out  in  a  merciless  toil,  so 
that  their  more  fortunate  brothers  might  eat  rich  food,  ride 
on  the  cushioned  seats  of  carriages,  and  lie  long  in  soft  warm 
beds ;  and  this  was  asking  too  much.  The  boon  was  denied 
to  them. 

His  depression  used  to  grow  deeper  as,  passing  from  the 
slums,  he  crossed  one  of  the  arteries  of  traffic.  Here  he 
thought  of  the  burden  of  government  laid  on  top  of  all  else. 
It  was  visible  wherever  one  looked — a  squad  of  soldiers 
marching  down  to  the  docks,  a  spick-and-span  sailor  to  re- 
mind one  that  large  navies  are  not  secured  without  paying 
for  them,  stalwart  municipal  officials  with  immense  horses 
and  newly-painted  carts,  firemen  to  prevent  fire  from  cleans- 
ing rookeries  that  ought  to  have  been  burnt  amidst  a  nation's 
rejoicing;  postmen  to  carry  letters  among  those  who  had  no 
friends  to  write  to  them,  policemen  to  move  one  on  if  one 
rested  too  long  against  a  wall  or  ventured  to  sit  upon  the 
pavement ;  tax-collectors  in  cabs,  rate-collectors  on  bicycles, 
and  a  procession  of  pair-horse  wagonettes  giving  an  airing 
to  the  best-behaved  lunatics  from  the  nearest  pauper  asylum ; 
— all  this  extra  dead  weight  carried  on  the  bent  backs  of  the 
people. 

What  hope?    None,  except  for  the  new  generations  that 


118  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

come  sweet  and  clean  from  their  Creator's  hands,  each  of 
which  in  its  turn  is  befouled  and  wasted.  He  thought  of 
boys  of  fourteen  like  those  who  enrolled  themselves  in 
Walsden's  guilds  or  brigade,  creatures  as  yet  unpolluted,  full 
of  courage,  faith,  and  trustfulness,  the  sound  material  from 
which  good  citizens  could  be  made,  but  just  brutally  wasted, 
converted  in  a  few  years  to  cadgers  like  Richard,  or  to 
corner  boys  willing  to  cut  a  throat  for  a  night's  drunk.  He 
thought  of  girls  of  twelve  with  eyes  like  forget-me-nots,  with 
angel-faces;  graceful  flowers  that  the  wind  of  heaven  has 
sown  on  a  dunghill,  and  that  soon  will  be  broken,  faded,  and 
trampled  down  into  the  filth. 

And  especially  the  sight  of  children  tore  at  his  heart- 
strings. Tears  came  to  his  eyes,  and  he  did  not  attempt  to 
restrain  them,  as  he  stood  watching  the  children.  The 
street  was  their  nursery,  and  in  the  midst  of  cold  and 
squalor,  except  when  pinched  with  hunger,  they  were  happy 
— asking  so  little  of  life,  only  a  smile  and  a  ray  of  sunshine; 
a  little  girl  of  six  would  be  in  charge  of  four  younger  ones ; 
the  baby,  thirteen  months  old,  wrapped  in  a  sack  as  though 
it  were  a  fur  pelisse,  proudly  riding  in  a  wooden  box  that 
was  pulled  along  with  a  string  by  the  three  other  mites. 
When  the  box  turned  over  in  the  gutter,  the  baby  howled, 
but  was  speedily  hushed  and  taught  to  be  happy  again  in  the 
loving  arms  of  its  deputy-mother.  Churchill  thought,  "But 
when  the  streets  have  ceased  to  be  a  nursery  and  become  a 
school,  what  will  it  make  of  these  pupils  in  ten  years?" 

After  these  periods  of  depression  he  felt  an  immense 
longing  for  something  lovely  to  look  at.  It  was  a  craving  of 
the  eyes  and  the  mind  together.  Temptations  whispered 
themselves.  It  would  do  him  good  to  take  a  day  off,  or  at 
least  an  afternoon ;  he  might  go  west  and  lounge  through  the 
National  Gallery,  soothing  his  eyes  and  resting  his  thoughts 
by  a  panorama  of  lovely  pictures.  He  knew  that  he  must 
not  so  pamper  himself,  and  he  knew  also  that  he  would  not 
yield  to  the  temptation.  But  about  the  circuit  of  his  duty  he 
snatched  at  the  enjoyment  of  regarding  anything  that  was 
not  outwardly  ugly  and  that  had  not  a  suggestion  of  hidden 
ugliness. 

He  never  went  west,  but,  whenever  he  could  do  so  with- 
out wasting  precious  time,  he  went  east  and  got  a  glimpse  of 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  119 

objects  pleasingly  different  from  those  that  always  sur- 
rounded him — such  as  the  Manor  House  in  the  East  India 
Docks  Road,  the  stone  tower  of  St.  Ursula's  church,  or  the 
high  garden  wall  and  gabled  roof  of  its  pretty  rectory.  As 
yet  he  had  not  gained  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Verschoyle, 
the  rector,  although  he  was  constantly  hearing  about  him, 
and  Walsden  frequently  promised  that  he  would  make  this 
introduction. 

Once  or  twice,  too,  on  spring  evenings,  when  the  very  air 
seemed  to  murmur  of  pretty  places  it  had  passed  before  it 
sank  fainting  in  the  slums,  he  roamed  through  Limehouse, 
staring  at  rare  old  house-fronts,  at  Norwegian  ships  with 
strangely  painted  poops  that  stood  high  and  light  in  the 
Regent's  basin,  at  corners  of  streets  nearer  the  water  that 
had  been  seen  and  described  by  Dickens ;  and,  working  his 
way  down  to  one  of  the  landing  stages,  stood  and  watched 
the  broad  flow  of  the  river.  It  looked  grand  and  mysterious 
in  the  soft  evening  light,  with  big  steamers  looming  duskily, 
the  piles  of  shipping  melted  and  fused  in  shadow,  and  the 
vast  Western  town  filling  the  horizon  with  a  golden  glitter — 
seeming  an  enchanted  city  that  darkness  and  cold  might 
never  enter. 

At  last  he  made  a  most  unexpected  discovery  of  something 
that  was  not  ugly,  but  almost  beautiful,  in  the  middle  of  his 
own  parish.  He  had  passed  close  to  it  hundreds  of  times 
and  never  guessed  at  the  possibility  of  its  existence.  Not 
three  hundred  yards  from  St.  Bede's  church  there  was  a 
turning  out  of  Bevis  Street  that  passed  between  the  walls  of 
a  small  soap  factory  and  some  sheds  or  warehouses  occu- 
pied by  fishcurers,  and  he  had  always  supposed  that  this 
turning  led  only  to  the  factory  yard ;  but  on  exploration  he 
found,  beyond  the  yard,  an  open  space  at  the  end  of  which 
stood  an  old  Georgian  house. 

It  was  high  and  narrow,  delightful  to  look  at,  with  iron 
gate  and  stone  steps  before  its  front  door,  with  the  original 
sash  windows  and  wooden  cornice — all  very  shabby,  badly 
wanting  paint,  and  generally  neglected,  but  in  essentials  just 
what  it  had  been  nearly  two  hundred  years  ago.  It  reminded 
him  of  St.  Dunstan's,  of  Oxford,  of  all  that  is  old  and  dig- 
nified. And  at  its  side,  in  a  strip  of  ground  not  big  enough 
to  be  called  a  garden,  there  was  a  tree — a  real  growing  plane 


120  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

tree,  whose  green  leaves  gently  touched  the  window  panes, 
stretched  forth  above  a  wall,  and  made  the  sunlight  and 
shadow  play  joyously  upon  the  stone  steps. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Walsden,  when  Churchill  spoke  of  the 
oasis  he  had  found  in  the  desert,  "that  is  Denmark  House. 
It  is  the  last  one  left  of  about  a  dozen  similar  houses  that 
made  up  what  was  called  Denmark  Square.  They  are  shown 
in  all  the  old  parish  maps.  The  square  was  demolished 
about  forty  years  ago,  I  believe." 

"And  who  lives  in  Denmark  House  ?" 

"The  manager  of  Brown's  soap  works — Oliver  by  name. 
He  is  a  good,  strenuous,  but  unlucky  man.  I  talk  to  him 
when  I  chance  to  meet  him,  although  he  is  not  of  our  way 
of  thinking.  Wesleyan !" 

Churchill  after  this  went  often  to  look  at  the  tree  by 
Denmark  House.  Whether  the  leaves  were  broad  and 
green  or  tawny  and  shrivelled,  they  did  one  good  to  look  at — 
they  were  so  different  from  all  other  things  in  St.  Bede's. 

He  longed  for  pleasant  sights ;  he  longed  for  pleasant 
sounds.  Even  the  tone  of  a  voice,  if  refined  and  musical, 
startled  him  and  gave  him  relief.  Thus  his  attention  was 
first  called  to  Miss  Vickers. 

Gardiner,  laid  up  with  influenza,  had  asked  him  to  receive 
the  visitors  and  discharged  patients  belonging  to  a  recently 
organised  extension  of  the  district  nursing  scheme,  and  he 
was  doing  so  to  the  best  of  his  ability  in  the  vicarage  draw- 
ing-room. Each  visitor  possessed  a  book  for  the  record  of 
her  cases,  and  the  entries  of  outlay  for  medicaments,  food, 
etc.,  had  to  be  written  up  in  a  diary  and  confirmed  by  a  signed 
statement  of  the  patient.  As  Churchill  knew  nobody's  name, 
and  was  ignorant  of  every  detail  in  the  scheme,  all  this 
proved  to  be  a  rather  confusing  task  until  intelligent  aid  pre- 
sented itself. 

He  had  noticed  a  tall,  nicely-dressed  young  woman  with 
brown  hair  and  thoughtful  eyes,  and  presently  she  came  for- 
ward and  assisted  him.  As  soon  as  she  stood  by  his  side 
and  he  observed  the  delicate  refinement  of  her  features,  and 
her  modest  silent  demeanour  when  not  speaking,  he  under- 
stood that  she  must  be  to  all  intents  and  purposes  a  lady.  It 
would  have  been  a  shock  had  her  voice  sounded  ugly  and 
common,  but  in  fact  it  was  charmingly  gentle  and  sweet. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  121 

When  all  the  business  had  been  transacted,  she  asked  him  to 
give  her  out  a  new  nursing  book  for  herself,  and  he  did  so, 
(  first  writing  down  her  name. 

"Let  me  see,  what  is  your  name  ?" 

"Vickers— Lilian  Vickers." 

And  he  wrote  it  carefully — "Miss  Lilian  Vickers" — telling 
himself  the  while  that  he  must  remember  the  name  and  in- 
quire later  who  and  what  she  was. 

"Thank  you." 

She  took  her  book  and  went  away,  he  watching  her  medi- 
tatively. Her  face  was  pale,  and  you  would  not  perhaps 
call  it  pretty,  but  the  slimness  and  gracefulness  of  her  figure, 
her  quietly  tasteful  dress,  and  her  easy  movements,  made  her 
extraordinarily  conspicuous  as  she  passed  through  the  other 
women  who  clustered  about  the  drawing-room  door. 

Afterwards  he  saw  her  once  or  twice  in  church.  Who 
was  she?  A  West-ender?  The  daughter  of  a  doctor?  Any- 
how she  was  different — like  the  tree  in  this,  that  a  glimpse 
of  her  was  pleasant. 

He  saw  her  talking  to  Mrs.  Walsden,  and  he  fully  in- 
tended to  inquire  about  her;  but  he  never  did  so.  In  the 
hurry  and  stress  of  his  life  all  trifles  got  brushed  aside. 
There  was  no  time  for  anything  but  solid  work. 

So  the  long  months  passed,  and  during  eighteen  of  them 
he  was  absent  from  St.  Bede's  only  for  two  visits  of  a  week- 
end to  the  boys'  seaside  camp  and  for  twenty-four  hours 
spent  with  his  mother  at  St.  Dunstan's. 

And  still,  in  spite  of  familiarity  with  its  inexorable  na- 
ture, the  burden  of  a  people's  pain  lay  upon  him.  He  could 
not  bear  it  strongly,  yet  he  might  not  put  it  down.  Except 
in  sleep  he  was  forced  to  try  to  carry  it. 

The  only  sustaining  thought  was  his  recognition  of  the 
effects  of  religion.  The  living  force  of  religion  showed  itself 
plainly  day  after  day.  But  here  again  there  was  the  same 
sense  of  continually  baffled  endeavour. 

St.  Bede's  parish  contained  about  thirteen  thousand  inhab- 
itants, and  probably  only  thirteen  hundred  could  be  claimed 
as  in  any  way  church-people.  Ten  per  cent,  of  the  massl 
And  in  all  neighbouring  parishes,  throughout  the  East 
End,  one  might  say  that  no  higher  percentage  could  be 
found.  Not  more  than  one  person  in  ten  was  really  and 


122  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

truly  a  Christian  believer.  Only  the  well-to-do  could,  as  it 
were,  afford  to  be  religious;  religion  was  the  final  stamp 
upon  an  unusual  prosperity;  in  lives  that  knew  no  leisure 
religion  could  not  find  a  place.  Or,  in  other  words,  those 
who  most  needed  it  might  never  have  it.  This,  too,  was 
denied  them. 

A  terrible  thought — the  more  terrible,  the  more  clearly 
one  saw  what  religion  can  do  and  what  it  ought  to  mean. 

One  winter's  afternoon  he  was  in  the  office  room  at  the 
Institute,  where  Walsden  sat  at  a  table  doling  out  relief 
tickets,  attending  to  applications  for  hospital  aid,  taking  the 
claimants  each  in  turn.  The  room  remained  almost  full,  the 
pressure  at  the  table  was  great,  and  the  beads  of  perspira- 
tion on  the  vicar's  forehead  became  little  fountains  that  he 
mopped  up  hastily  with  his  bandana  handkerchief.  A  young 
girl  on  a  chair  wept  plaintively,  and  Churchill  pointed  her 
out  to  Walsden. 

"Now,  my  dear,"  said  Walsden,  "don't  snivel.  Your 
turn  will  come  directly.  What  ticket  was  it  you  asked  for  ? 
....  Speak  up.  I  can't  hear.  Really,  whatever  it  is, 
you  must  wait  patiently." 

"But  father  will  be  dead." 

"What's  that  you  say?" 

Churchill  went  over  to  the  girl,  brought  her  sobbing  to  the 
table,  and  she  explained  that  she  wished  a  priest  would  come 
to  her  dying  father. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  so  at  once?" 

"I  did,  sir." 

"Did  you,  my  dear?"  said  Walsden,  very  kindly.  "Then 
I  fear  I  was  not  attending — or  it  has  slipped  my  memory. 
You  see  we  are  unusually  busy.  But  now,  when  you  say 
'dying/  do  you  mean  merely  ill,  or  that  he  is  on  the  point 
of  death?' 

"Doctor  said  he'd  be  gone  before  dusk;"  and  the  girl 
moaned  and  rocked  herself. 

"What  is  your  father's  name?" 

•Thomas  Rinch." 

"Oh,  dear.  I  know  him  well.  Your  father  is  an  honest 
godfearing  man." 

"Always  bin  to  church  regular,"  sobbed  the  girl. 

Edward  Churchill  asked  and  obtained  leave  to  go  with  the 


123 

girl  to  her  father's  home,  while  Walsden  went  on  distrib- 
uting the  soup  and  coal  tickets. 

They  were  in  time.  The  man  was  still  alive.  As  always 
on  such  occasions  he  had  served  as  a  little  private  exhibition 
for  the  whole  street ;  from  an  early  hour  female  neighbours 
had  been  going  in  and  out ;  at  mid-day  men  had  come  from 
their  work  to  have  a  peep  at  him,  and  now,  in  extremis,  he 
lay  surrounded  by  curious  and  attentive  spectators. 

Churchill,  not  without  difficulty,  cleared  the  room  of  every- 
body except  the  wife  and  the  daughter,  gave  the  last  com- 
forts of  the  Church,  and  stayed  till  all  was  over. 

Then  he  came  away,  walking  very  slowly  through  the 
streets  and  feeling  a  new  and  strange  tranquillity  of  thought 
At  the  Institute  he  begged  to  be  excused  from  all  duties  until 
the  morrow.  He  could  work  no  more  that  day  among  the 
living;  he  must  sorrow  and  be  joyful  for  one  who  had  been 
here  a  little  while  and  now  again  had  gone. 

Alone  in  his  bare  cold  room  at  Bentley  House  he  passed 
the  whole  evening  praying  and  meditating,  except  for  half 
an  hour  that  he  took  for  writing  a  letter  to  St.  Dunstan's. 
He  said  in  this  letter : — 

"The  face  was  lovely  to  look  upon,  lined  and  fur- 
rowed, but  with  the  pathetic  dignity  that  only  comes 
after  pain  that  has  been  bravely  borne.  ...  I  am 
sure  that  he  understood  me,  although  he  could  not  speak. 
I  watched  his  eyes,  and  they  were  full  of  comprehen- 
sion, and  he  made  slight  movements  with  his  hand. 

"But,  mother,  he  spoke  just  before  he  died.  He  was 
propped  up  high  in  the  bed  because  of  his  trouble  in 
breathing,  and  all  at  once  his  head  came  forward,  he 
looked  straight  in  front  of  him  with  widely  opened 
eyes,  and  his  whole  face  lit  up  as  if  the  light  of  a  lamp 
had  been  turned  upon  it.  And  he  spoke  a  single  word — 
'Wonderful !' 

"And,  mother  dear,  no  one  who  saw  this  could  have 
doubted.  The  gates  of  heaven  had  opened  for  him,  and 
he  was  looking  into  the  blessed  abode.  I  went  on  pray- 
ing with  dread  and  joy ;  for  I  felt  that  the  spirit  of  God 
had  descended  into  the  room,  and  I  knew  that  the  man 
was  saved.  He  said  the  word  again,  twice — 'Wonder- 


124  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

ful,  wonderful!'  Then  he  sank  back,  dead.  When  I 
closed  his  eyes  they  were  dull,  like  tarnished  glass. 
That  did  not  matter.  The  vision  of  heaven  was  in 
them. 

"And,  oh,  mother,  my  own  dear  mother,  is  it  not 
wonderful?  What  other  word  could  he  have  used  ?  Is 
it  not  wonderful  and  glorious  that  the  grave  need  have 
no  terrors,  that  what  seems  the  end  is  but  a  beginning, 
that  soon  we  may  be  where  there  are  no  partings,  no 
regrets,  nothing  but  infinite  peace  ?" 


XVI 

OF  a  sudden  his  burden  had  become  less  heavy.  Perhaps 
it  was  that  deathbed  scene  which  changed  the  sombre  drift 
of  all  his  thoughts.  But  certainly  he  was  happier,  and 
scrutinising  darkness  could  always  now  detect  some  gleams 
of  light. 

When  he  looked  at  the  distress  and  pain  that  lay  on  all 
sides,  he  saw,  too,  the  love  and  the  self-sacrifice.  If  there 
was  much  cruelty  there  was  also  much  kindness.  Among 
the  more  fortunate  there  was  immense  generosity.  They 
lent  one  another  their  money,  their  goods,  their  service,  and 
they  did  it  freely  and  ungrudgingly.  The  very  poor  went  on 
giving  until  they  could  give  no  more.  As  to  the  most  miser- 
able, the  fallen  and  the  wicked,  the  outcast  and  the  rejected 
— well,  these  were  exactly  like  the  people  that  Christ  chose 
to  live  among.  And  the  quite  obvious  thought  came  that 
Christ  never  seemed  to  be  really  distressed  by  the  material 
grievance  of  their  condition;  he  founded  a  brotherhood  of 
love,  but  he  sketched  no  plans  for  a  socially  comfortable 
community;  he  accepted  all  the  horrible  inequality  of  rich 
and  poor ;  he  did  not  even  try  to  free  the  slaves. 

Christ  accepted  it  all  as  it  was — or  at  least  showed  no 
passionate  hurry  to  change  it.  He  had  brought  the  great 
message  from  heaven,  and  henceforth  the  earth  could  take 
care  of  itself. 

Churchill  said  to  himself,  "I  have  been  sinking  into  the 
folly  of  unbelievers/'  And  he  thought  again,  but  in  an  en- 
tirely different  manner,  of  the  ceaseless  attempts  to  amelio- 
rate the  existing  state  of  affairs  that  are  made  by  economists, 
politicians,  writers,  and  talkers.  All  that  they  can  do, 
lavishly  aided  by  the  benevolent  and  the  charitable,  is  but  a 
drop  in  the  ocean.  And  knowing  that  it  is  so,  many  good  men 
cannot  sleep  at  night  because  of  the  suffering  of  mankind. 
The  horror  of  it,  together  with  their  own  impotence,  haunts 
them,  and  ultimately  kills  them  perhaps. 

He  thought  of  these  philanthropists  and  of  their  despair- 

125 


126  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

ing  cry,  feeling  ashamed  but  scarcely  now  remembering  if 
he  had  ever  echoed  it.  He  knew  it  perhaps  only  because  one 
hears  it  so  often :  "The  world  is  too  ugly.  The  suffering  is 
too  much.  Despair." 

Yes,  but  the  answer  is  simple.  He  marvelled  at  the  folly 
of  the  cry.  These  men  must  be  unbelievers.  In  truth  one 
might  despair,  if  it  was  a  question  of  only  one  life  here  and 
now.  But  as  there  is  another  life,  to  which  this  is  only  a 
probation,  why  despair? 

And  even  here  below,  we  are  not  standing  still.  We  are 
not  as  we  were  two  thousand  years  ago.  Here  below  the 
love  is  strengthening,  spreading — nothing  can  stop  the 
progress.  Christ  sowed  the  seed  in  the  heart  of  the  world, 
and  the  blossoming  tree  cannot  die;  it  must  spread,  and 
spring  up  higher  and  higher.  There  is  hope  on  all  sides. 
No  real  despair  is  felt  among  those  who  are  suffering.  Only 
the  doubting  lookers-on  cannot  bear  it,  and  sometimes  go 
mad  from  the  hideous  sights. 

The  sense  of  being  lost  in  the  shifting  crowd  of  strangers 
passed  away  from  him.  He  knew  more  and  more  people 
personally.  Sometimes,  going  through  the  costers'  market, 
he  seemed  to  be  acquainted  with  everybody  there.  Whole 
streets  talked  to  him — the  church- folk  as  to  a  friend,  the 
others  in  genial  recognition  of  a  now  familiar  face.  "After- 
noon, guv'nor."  "Fine  day,  sir."  "I  say,  mister.  'Arf  a 
minute  ago  there  was  a  young  bloke  looking  f  er  you ;  one  o* 
yer  Brigade  boys;  carroty-'eaded  boy  that  b'longs  to 
Brown's." 

At  the  vicarage,  where  he  generally  took  his  evening  meal, 
he  was  quite  at  home ;  trustfully  admiring  Walsden,  and  not 
only  fond  of  Mrs.  Walsden,  Gardiner,  and  the  servants,  but 
even  fond  of  Mr.  Smart.  He  had  tried  hard  not  to  judge 
Smart  severely,  and  he  had  been  rewarded.  After  hearing 
things  narrated  by  Walsden  and  observing  other  things  for 
himself,  he  would  have  been  sorry  indeed  had  he  recklessly 
condemned  this  large,  soft,  and  outwardly  common  man 
because  of  his  one  constitutional  or  hereditary  weakness. 
Much,  much  good  lay  hid  in  Smart.  Though  poor,  he  was 
not  greedy  of  money ;  if  he  loved  ease,  he  did  not  take  it ; 
if  he  shirked  the  battlefield,  he  was  faithful  and  untiring 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  127 

with  the  wounded  and  the  sick.  In  his  last  curacy  he  might 
have  married  a  rich  woman,  but,  although  not  bound  by  any 
vows  of  celibacy,  he  refused  marriage  for  the  sake  of  the 
priestly  ideal.  Soon  he  would  be  leaving  St.  Bede's,  to  take 
up  work  just  as  arduous  and  unromantic  in  a  provincial 
town ;  and  Churchill  felt  genuinely  sorry  that  his  round  face 
and  rather  smug  smile  were  about  to  vanish  from  the  scene. 

If  either  Smart  or  Gardiner  had  Ipeen  capable  of  enter- 
taining the  pettiness  of  jealousy,  both  of  them,  ere  this, 
might  perhaps  have  wished  that  Churchill  himself  would 
speedily  withdraw.  People  who  used  to  go  to  them  for 
ghostly  counsel  now  went  to  him.  Women  and  boys  in  in- 
creasing numbers,  and  many  men,  too,  demanded  preparation 
from  him  before  attending  the  Communion  Service,  and  but 
for  the  advice  or  explicit  requests  of  Walsden,  he  would 
have  developed  and  expanded  the  practice  of  confession  to 
the  utmost  of  his  power.  On  this  matter  he  and  Walsden 
had  many  talks.  He  did  not  agree  with  Walsden's  views — 
so  far  as  this  special  matter  was  concerned — either  with  re- 
gard to  doctrine  or  policy;  he  thought  them  wrong;  but  he 
submitted  and  obeyed. 

Walsden  was  more  grateful  than  Churchill  guessed  for 
such  acquiescence  to  the  superior  authority.  Talking  to  his 
wife,  he  once  said,  "Emily,  the  best  thing  about  Churchill 
is  that  he  doesn't  like  giving  in — no,  he  hates  it  and  yet  he 
does  it." 

"He  is  an  extremely  nice  young  man,"  said  Mrs.  Walsden. 
"Quite  the  nicest  we  have  ever  had." 

Walsden  scratched  his  beard  and  laughed  contentedly. 
"Yes,  and  do  you  know,  it  is  lucky  that  he  bends  to  me, 
because  the  time  is  not  far  off  when  he  will  be  strong 
enough  to  break  me." 

"Henry,  what  do  you  mean?"  Mrs.  Walsden  was  indig- 
nant and  puzzled. 

"I  mean  the  hold  he  is  getting  on  the  parish." 

"Oh,  that  is  nonsense,"  said  Mrs.  Walsden  quite  warmly. 
"No  one  can  ever  be  anything  here  but  you." 

"You  don't  hear  what  I  hear.  It  is  all  Mr.  Churchill 
nowadays.  It  is  'Mr.  Churchill  told  me  not  to;'  'Mr. 
Churchill  wouldn't  like  it ;'  'Mr.  Churchill  said  I  was  to  pray 
for  my  enemies.'  .  .  .  Emily,  if  he  set  himself  to  do  it, 


128  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

he  could  take  them  all  away  from  me.  But  he  won't  at- 
tempt to  do  it." 

"I  should  think  not  indeed;"  and  Mrs.  Walsden  tossed 
her  head,  and  her  mild  eyes  flashed  fire. 

"And  he  won't  have  time  to  do  it  either.  Emily,  we  can't 
hope  to  keep  him  long.  It  would  be  too  much  to  hope — but, 
oh,  my  dear,  how  I  shall  miss  him !" 

"/  shan't — if  he  has  such  presumptuous  ideas." 

"He  has  none;"  and  Walsden  spoke  with  most  unusual 
slowness  and  thoughtfulness.  "Emily,  I  see  great  things 
ahead  of  Edward  Churchill.  Up  to  now  I  believe  his  life  has 
been  a  constant  fight.  It  is  a  fight  that  tells  its  story  in  his 
face.  I  saw  it  was  there  directly  I  saw  him,  but  I  couldn't 
read  the  story.  I  asked  him  why  he  looked  older  than  his 
years,  and  he  said  he  did  not  know.  Quite  true.  I  don't 
think  he  knows  now." 

"And  now  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Wals- 
den, picking  up  a  basket  of  socks. 

"I  mean But,  never  mind.  You're  busy,  dear.  I 

too.  There's  something  I  had  to  attend  to,  and  it  has  com- 
pletely gone;"  and  Walsden  roused  himself  and  began  to 
bustle.  "Yes,  Churchill — only  this.  When  a  man  of  that 
quality  conquers  himself,  he  can  conquer  all  the  world.  He 
becomes  like  iron — all  it  meets  must  bend  or  break.  .  .  . 
Tell  Miss  Lacy  that  the  auditor's  report  will  be  ready 
to-morrow." 

In  fact,  although  Edward  Churchill  did  not  as  yet  know 
it,  what  had  happened  twice  already — at  school  and  at  the 
University — had  happened  again,  and  on  a  larger  scale,  at 
St.  Bede's.  He  was  an  influence. 

This  became  patent  to  all  but  himself  when  he  began  to 
preach.  He  had  prepared  a  series  of  sermons  on  the  Effi- 
cacy of  Prayer,  and  he  started  delivering  them  at  week-day 
evening  services.  Gradually  he  filled  the  church.  He  told 
the  people  to  pray  for  one  another ;  he  said  it  was  an  aid  that 
they  could  always  give,  and  they  were  to  give  it  always; 
instead  of  coming  to  gape  at  the  sick  man  and  make  a  raree- 
show  of  him,  they  were  to  pray  for  him  while  at  their  work. 
They  were  to  pray  for  those  they  loved  and  for  those  they 
hated;  and  the  love  would  deepen  and  the  hate  would  die. 
"Pray  for  him  who  evilly  entreats  you,  ask  that  he  may  be 


THE  MIRROR  AND,  THE  LAMP  129 

redeemed  from  his  wickedness  and  taught  to  act  as  a  mem- 
ber of  the  brotherhood  of  Christ.  And  listen  to  this,  believe 
it,  because  it  is  the  truth:  If  your  prayers  do  him  no  good, 
they  will  do  you  good.  Try  it ;  put  it  to  the  test,  and  tell  me 
if  it  is  not  true.  After  such  prayer  you  will  feel  that  you 
are  better  and  stronger;  the  poison  of  angry  thought  will 
have  been  driven  out  of  your  blood,  your  brains  will  seem 
to  have  been  washed  in  clean  water,  your  hearts  will  beat 
to  a  steadier  measure ;  you  will  be  more  like  yourselves." 

He  took  no  pride  but  an  immense  pleasure  in  the  success 
of  his  sermons.  When  he  went  up  into  the  pulpit  and  looked 
down  at  the  toil-worn  faces,  he  found  that  all  which  once 
seemed  ugly  had  utterly  gone.  This  place  of  simple  wor- 
ship seemed  homely,  friendly,  congruous  to  its  purpose  and 
its  aims;  the  yellowish  bricks  and  clumsy  woodwork  had 
been  rendered  innocuous  by  familiarity,  the  tessellated  pave- 
ment glowed  warmly  and  cheerfully  in  the  gaslight,  and  by 
day  the  gaudy  crudeness  of  the  painted  glass  no  longer 
afflicted  his  eyes. 

Soon  Walsden  came  to  him  with  an  open  letter,  and,  look- 
ing at  it  rather  ruefully,  said,  "Father  Halliday  wants  you 
to  go  over  and  preach  at  Poplar.  He'll  send  a  man  to  take 
your  place.  It's  the  first  offer  of  the  kind  that  has  ever 
reached  us  from  that  high  and  mighty  quarter — and,  well, 
my  immediate  inclination  was  to  ask  him  to  keep  his  im- 
pudence to  polish  his  buckled  shoes  with.  But,  of  course, 
I  should  like  you  to  go.  It's  the  right  thing  to  do.  Yes, 
I  wish  to  say  yes." 

Churchill  preached  at  Poplar,  and  then  with  Walsden's 
approval  complied  with  requests  for  a  sermon  at  Plaistow 
and  other  parishes  as  far  eastward  as  Leytonstone. 

Amongst  the  churches  that  he  preached  in — the  one  to 
which  Walsden  dispatched  him  with  the  most  cordial  satis- 
faction— was  St.  Ursula's ;  and  now  at  last  he  met  that  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Verschoyle  of  whom  he  had  heard  so  much,  and 
was  privileged  to  pass  through  the  gate  in  the  high  garden 
wall  at  which  he  had  looked  so  often. 

The  rectory  was  more  charming  than  he  had  imagined 
when  scrutinising  its  gabled  roof  and  upper  windows  from 
the  top  of  a  tram.  Coming  out  of  the  roar  of  traffic,  leaving 
the  mean  shops,  the  sad  crowd,  the  dirty  pavement,  and 


130  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

passing  through  an  enchanted  wicket,  you  saw  before  you  a 
modest  old-fashioned  country  house,  with  carriage  drive, 
wide  porch,  and  well-treed  garden,  beyond  which,  and  at  a 
considerably  lower  level,  ran  a  stretch  of  water  that  con- 
nected one  of  the  many  ship-basins  with  a  neighbouring 
canal.  Inside,  the  house  was  homelike,  peaceful,  pretty.  But 
more  charming  than  all  this  were  the  people  who  lived  in  the 
house. 

Verschoyle  was  a  tall  thin  man  of  perhaps  fifty,  and  yet 
when  he  laughed  his  clean-shaven  face  seemed  that  of  a  boy; 
he  had  soft  luminous  eyes,  and  their  expression  changed 
rapidly,  now  humorous,  now  grave,  but  never  hard;  in 
manner  he  was  easy,  natural,  but  always  priestlike.  Mrs. 
Verschoyle  as  a  young  girl  must  have  been  very  beautiful, 
and  indeed  she  was  still  beautiful  at  the  age  of  thirty-five :  a 
woman  of  the  Italian  type,  with  the  nobly  chiselled  mask  of 
antique  ideals,  dark  hair,  and  an  olive  complexion.  When 
in  repose  a  fleeting  sadness  showed  about  her  lips  and  eyes ; 
when  she  talked  the  light  and  the  life  in  her  was  glorious. 
All  the  church-people  of  St.  Ursula's  loved  her;  she  could 
understand  all,  she  forgave  all ;  she  had  a  power  of  intuition 
that  is  very  rare,  a  power  that  first  startles  and  then  de- 
lights. An  attribute  which  she  shared  with  her  husband, 
perhaps  the  strongest  characteristic  of  both,  was  that  with- 
out delay  and  without  question  they  seemed  to  give  one  their 
ripe  friendship — yet,  not  as  common  people  giving  that 
which  they  know  is  of  little  value  and  therefore  need  not 
be  withheld,  but  as  if  acting  on  a  firm  belief  that  the  gift 
would  be  deserved. 

Thus  they  gave  their  friendship  to  Edward  Churchill,  and 
he  thought  that  it  was  of  inestimable  value.  He  came  back 
to  the  rectory  again  and  again,  and  they  always  made  him 
welcome.  They  supplied  nearly  everything  for  which  he  had 
craved.  All  here  were  staunch  Catholics,  thinking  exactly 
as  he  did  and  able  to  express  their  thoughts  without  the  least 
reserve.  It  was  a  joy  to  snatch  some  brief  respite,  jump 
upon  a  tram,  and  find  himself  in  the  rectory  drawing-room. 
Listening  here  was  as  pleasant  as  talking;  just  to  watch 
was  pleasant.  The  young  priests  who  lived  here  wore  cas- 
socks and  birettas ;  their  faces  were  fine  and  mild,  yet  really 
strong,  like  the  rector's  face;  and  in  their  intercourse  with 


131 

him  and  his  wife  they  seemed  to  be  brothers.  All  were  so 
happy.  The  atmosphere  was  full  of  a  glorious  untroubled 
faith  into  which  fuss  and  hurry  could  not  obtrude  itself. 
The  whole  thing  was  spiritual  when  compared  with  Wals- 
den's  harassed  household,  where  the  talk  ran  so  much  on 
violent  effort,  bitter  disappointment,  and  stern  refusal  to 
admit  defeat.  Here,  when  they  spoke  of  difficulties  they 
all  seemed  peacefully  conscious  of  the  irresistible  force  that 
works  behind  our  puny  endeavours.  Walsden's  was  a  noble 
ardour ;  this  was  a  splendid  confidence. 

"Now  sit  quietly,"  Mrs.  Verschoyle  used  to  say,  smiling  at 
him.  "Don't  pull  out  your  watch  in  that  agitated  way ;  don't 
frown  and  start,  and  jump  up  as  if  you  had  been  shot.  What- 
ever you  have  to  do,  there  will  be  time  enough  to  do  it." 

And  he  noticed  how  slowly  and  thoughtfully  one  of  the 
young  priests  took  his  biretta  from  the  piano,  turned  it  round 
and  round  in  his  white  hands,  lingered  a  little  while  chatting, 
and  then  glided  away.  Most  haste  less  speed  perhaps.  At 
St.  Ursula's  contemplation  and  meditation  seemed  to  be 
possible.  And  if  one  got  unduly  rattled,  one  went  into  a 
retreat.  He  heard  them  speak  of  retreats  often.  "Brother 
Davenport  is  doing  a  retreat  at  Reigate."  "Father  Mathison 
will  have  finished  his  retreat  by  Sunday." 

When  here,  he  fell  into  their  ways.  He  lived  for  the 
moment,  and  the  wish  to  be  in  two  or  three  places  at  once 
was  forgotten. 

So  truly  the  rectory  was  for  him  a  retreat.  He  did  a 
retreat  of  an  hour  or  an  hour  and  a  quarter  at  a  time, 
liking  it  best  when  he  could  sit  alone  with  Mrs.  Verschoyle 
on  summer  afternoons.  It  was  rest  and  enjoyment  to  be  in 
this  beautiful  room — made  beautiful  by  taste  and  not  by 
wealth;  to  look  at  the  chintz-covered  sofas  and  chairs,  the 
pretty  china,  the  flowers,  and,  through  an  open  window  and 
under  the  branches  of  trees,  at  the  garden  sloping  downward 
to  brown  water  dappled  with  patches  of  yellow  sunlight. 
And,  oh,  the  sweet  boon  of  silence!  Here,  at  the  back  of 
the  house,  all  seemed  so  still.  Not  a  murmur  of  the  traffic 
reached  one,  and  the  faint  shouts  of  men  passing  with  a 
barge  upon  the  water  sounded  but  for  a  moment  and  then 
like  music. 

He  used  to  talk  to  her  dreamily,  of  his  mother,  his  am- 


132  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

bitions,  his  ideas  for  new  sermons ;  and  he  loved  to  talk,  he 
loved  to  listen.  Her  voice,  the  mere  sight  of  her,  did  him 
good. 

"Well,  Christian,"  she  would  say,  with  a  frank,  kind  smile, 
as  he  came  in,  "how  are  you  getting  on  with  the  giants? 
You've  left  the  Slough  of  Despond  far  behind  you,  anyhow." 

Quite  early  in  their  friendship  she  and  her  husband  had 
begun  to  call  him  Christian,  but  they  employed  the  name 
only  when  there  were  no  other  people  present.  He  had 
asked  her  why.  "Is  it  because  you  think  me  faint-hearted 
and  easily  frightened  ?" 

"No,"  she  said.  "You  are  like  Christian  because  you  are 
going  a  long  journey,  and  you  are  going  to  suffer  many 
things,  but  you  will  get  there  in  the  end.  But  that's  not  the 
reason,"  and  she  laughed  pleasantly.  "See  for  yourself." 
Then  she  brought  from  her  writing-table  a  print  of  Sher- 
burn's  fanciful  picture  of  Christian  dressed  in  armour. 
"Have  you  ever  seen  that  face?  The  first  time  you  came 
here  my  husband  and  I  had  the  idea  that  we  knew  you,  that 
we  had  often  seen  you  before.  We  racked  our  memories. 
Then  all  at  once  Wilfrid  jumped  up  and  said,  'Christian! 
Sherburn's  Christian' !" 

Many  other  visitors  came  to  the  rectory;  and,  meeting 
them,  Churchill  was  unconsciously  touching  the  fringe  of  a 
circle  of  the  most  aristocratic  Catholicism.  These  droppers- 
in  were  for  the  most  part  priests — friends  of  St.  Ursula's 
curates,  members  of  orders  and  wandering  communities,  or 
representatives  of  austere  brotherhoods  who  made  excur- 
sions into  the  world  and  then  returned  to  the  normally 
severe  discipline  of  their  Houses ;  but  there  were  some  lay- 
men also,  young  men  of  easy  address  and  polished  manners, 
who,  except  for  their  costume,  were  just  like  clerics.  All 
were  celibates,  and  certainly  most  of  the  priests,  if  not  the 
laymen,  too,  had  taken  solemn  vows  of  chastity.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Verschoyle  not  only  approved  of  celibacy,  but  spoke 
of  it  with  enthusiasm,  delightfully  oblivious  both  of  them 
that  they  were  always  presenting  it  in  its  most  attractive  and 
highest  form,  the  bliss  of  married  life. 

These  people  talked  often  about  the  church  of  the  Cruci- 
fixion in  Melford  Street,  its  eloquent  vicar,  Father  Bryan, 
its  deserved  popularity,  and  its  varied  offices.  They  ad- 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  133 

vised  Churchill  to  go  there  without  delay,  politely  giving  him 
to  understand  that  not  to  have  attended  High  Mass  at 
Father  Bryan's  was  at  once  the  loss  of  a  great  pleasure  and 
an  ignorance  that  verged  on  being  a  solecism. 

Then  somebody  offered  to  procure  tickets  for  Mrs. 
Verschoyle,  Churchill,  and  the  youngest  of  St.  Ursula's 
curates;  and  one  Sunday  all  three  of  them  went  together 
and  heard  Schubert's  Mass. 

Churchill's  delight  and  joyful  emotion  were  intense.  He 
came  away  fortified.  And  thence  onwards  he  went  there 
from  time  to  time  alone — making  it  his  great  treat,  forcing 
himself  to  work  doubly  hard  in  order  to  earn  and  deserve 
the  treat. 

At  this  period  Father  Bryan's  church  was  at  the  very 
height  of  its  vogue.  At  ten  o'clock — half  an  hour  before 
Matins  began — carriages  came  rolling  out  of  the  stately 
Mayfair  squares  to  set  down  what  the  newspapers  used 
to  call  the  highest  representatives  of  rank  and  fashion,  and 
soon  the  courtyard  gates  in  narrow  little  Melford  Street 
were  as  handsomely  blocked  as  though  the  attraction  had 
been  a  dress  rehearsal  of  some  new  opera.  Many  policemen 
were  required  to  regulate  the  traffic  and  help  you  through 
the  crowd  of  sightseers  who  had  gathered  to  gape  at  the 
nobs.  Admission  was  by  ticket  only.  In  the  courtyard 
grave  and  courtly  men  of  the  world  examined  your  creden- 
tials ;  then  you  were  passed  on  into  the  church  porch,  where 
you  surrendered  your  cards  of  entry.  In  the  church  itself 
pleasant  debonair  young  gentlemen  took  charge  of  you, 
dividing  the  two  sexes,  conducting  women  to  one  side  and 
men  to  the  other,  whispering,  smiling,  beckoning,  and  finally 
giving  you,  somewhere  among  the  tightly  packed  throng, 
your  cane-seated  chair  and  square  praying-mat.  There  was 
excitement  and  anxiety  as  closing  time  drew  near;  for  no 
mercy  was  ever  shown  to  late-comers.  At  10 :25  the  church 
doors  shut,  one  heard  the  keys  turn  in  the  locks,  and  one 
knew  that  outside,  the  courtyard  was  full  of  the  disap- 
pointed and  the  ticketless.  After  Matins  the  doors  opened 
again.  A  few  people  went  out,  but  many  more  surged  in, 
packing  every  available  corner,  exhausting  every  square 
inch  of  standing  room,  for  the  Mass. 

The   church,   considered  merely  as  a  building,  was  "the 


134  THE  MIRROR  AND.  THE  LAMP 

last  word"  in  ecclesiastical  architecture  and  decoration. 
Clusters  of  polished  stone  pillars  with  ornate  capitals  sup- 
ported the  unusually  high  roof;  the  wall  on  the  women's 
side  was  given  over  to  a  series  of  fresco  pictures,  while  the 
men's  wall  had  narrow  windows  with  low-toned  glass ;  there 
was  a  small  but  rich  little  chapel  snuggling  behind  the  pulpit 
and  beneath  the  screened  tubes  of  the  organ — a  very  power- 
ful and  costly  instrument.  All  this  seemed  fine  enough,  but 
the  real  splendours  had  been  reserved  for  the  choir  and 
sanctuary.  The  altar  stood  high  above  its  spacious  wide 
steps ;  all  columns,  tracery,  or  screen  work  to  either  side  of 
the  choir  were  gilded,  with  richly-glowing  colour  as  a 
background,  and  the  entire  eastern  wall  was  a  blaze  of  gold 
mosaic.  Windows,  high  up  to  the  south  and  north,  that 
could  not  be  seen  from  the  body  of  the  church,  admitted  a 
white  but  delicately  tempered  light,  but  only  at  a  level  well 
above  the  altar,  so  that  it  softened  the  fiery  glow  of  decora- 
tion, and  made  all  that  might  seem  heavy  or  solid  change  to 
graceful,  almost  ethereal  luminance. 

At  first  Churchill  noticed  little  of  such  matters.  Thrilled 
and  captivated  by  the  new  experience,  he  could  scarcely 
observe  anything  outside  the  essential  satisfaction  furnished 
by  his  surroundings.  But  now,  during  Matins  at  least,  he 
was  fully  cognisant  of  minor  interests. 

He  noticed  the  congregation — even  studied  it  attentively. 
The  sleek  and  robust  young  men  who  acted  as  vergers  were 
confident,  easy  content  with  themselves  and  yet  not  self- 
conscious.  They  seemed  to  be  friends  of  everybody,  they 
stooped  to  tap  people  on  the  shoulders  and  murmur  amicably ; 
they  sometimes  kept  one  hand  in  a  trousers  pocket  as  they 
showed  people  to  seats — they  were  like  the  bridegroom's 
chums  helping  at  a  wedding.  On  different  occasions  he 
saw  seven  or  eight  men  that  he  had  known  at  Oxford,  and, 
talking  to  them  afterwards  in  the  courtyard,  they  made  much 
of  him  as  one  with  whom  they  were  glad  to  renew  relations. 
Amongst  them  was  a  man  called  Richard  Hayling,  a  man 
much  older  than  Churchill,  who  used  to  come  to  stay  with  a 
fellow  of  All  Souls,  and  did  not  then  appear  to  be  very  relig- 
ious. Now  it  was  easy  to  see  that,  in  spite  of  his  smart 
clothes  and  still  worldly  manner,  religion  had  become  the 
main  interest  of  his  life.  He  was  a  handsome  man,  with  a 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  135 

large  bird-like  nose,  dark  hair  rapidly  turning  grey,  and  keen 
inquiring  eyes.  Evidently  a  person  of  importance  here,  he 
took  Churchill  under  his  wing,  introducing  him  to  Father 
Bryan,  and  promising  him  that  he  should  have  tickets  when- 
ever he  wanted  them.  Hayling  also  said  that  some  one  had 
told  him  of  Churchill's  gifts  as  a  preacher.  Another  man 
whom  Churchill  had  never  seen  before,  but  whom  he  im- 
mediately recognised,  was  the  Duke  of  Danesborough.  The 
windows  of  Oxford  photographers  had  been  full  of  por- 
traits of  this  celebrated  undergrad,  and,  although  he  had 
been  down  for  some  time,  the  talk  still  ran  upon  his  rows 
with  dons,  policemen,  and  bookmakers;  his  steeplechasers 
and  hunters,  the  coach  on  which  he  drove  actresses,  his 
rooms  by  the  archway  at  Christ  Church  where  he  gave  fabu- 
lously elaborate  and  painfully  riotous  luncheon  parties.  A 
sun-burnt,  strongly-built,  even  beefy  nobleman,  leaving  tra- 
ditions behind  him  to  lead  youth  astray — and  yet  here  he 
was,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  taking  round  an  offertory  bag 
and  looking  grave,  dignified,  princely,  or  kneeling  on  his 
little  mat,  all  his  ducal  pomp  forgotten  in  humble  and  whole- 
hearted devotion. 

When  Churchill  glanced  at  the  female  part  of  the  con- 
gregation, he  saw  unmistakably  the  effects  of  wealth  and 
luxury  upon  outward  aspect.  In  a  sense,  many  of  these 
richly  dressed,  gracious,  and  graceful  women  were  ex- 
tremely beautiful.  The  faces  of  young  and  old  all  seemed 
mature.  Each  seemed  a  complete,  well-finished  specimen, 
with  nothing  pinched  or  stinted  in  colour,  line,  or  size.  They 
were,  of  course,  all  of  them  very  highly  nourished;  their 
complexions,  even  when  waxily  pale,  suggested  a  full  supply 
of  blood,  and  the  curves  of  their  cheeks  and  the  contours  of 
their  figures,  although  so  pretty,  were  very  firm.  To  his  eye 
— perhaps  merely  from  an  association  of  ideas  natural 
enough — their  charms  were  a  little  too  earthly.  Something 
dull,  lifeless,  or  inert  marred  the  loveliness.  He  could  see  no 
one  with  the  spiritual  beauty  of  Mrs.  Verschoyle,  nor  one 
with  an  expression  and  general  air  as  interesting  and  subtly 
attractive  as  had  been  shown  by  that  Miss  Vickers. 

Thinking  this,  he  remembered  that  Miss  Vickers  came 
no  more  to  St.  Bede's  church,  and  that  he  never  met  her  at 
the  Institute  or  in  the  streets.  She  had  vanished  without 


136  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

his  ever  having  asked  those  questions  concerning  her  char- 
acter, history,  social  status.  She  had  been  a  pleasant  ap- 
parition and  no  more.  He  remembered,  too,  that  he  had  not 
for  some  time  paid  a  visit  to  the  tree  by  Denmark  House. 
He  had  forgotten  the  green  leaves  and  the  pale  face  together. 

But  however  widely  his  mind  wandered,  it  came  back  and 
concentrated  itself  the  moment  the  Mass  began.  As  the  first 
chords  of  noble  music  struck  one's  ear,  one  became  absorbed, 
entranced.  One  thought  of  the  great  and  glorious  mystery, 
and  one  thought  of  nothing  else.  Truly,  however,  as  the 
celebration  continued,  thought  with  most  of  the  worshippers 
was  obliterated  and  they  became  purely  receptive,  storing 
pleasure  and  peace  through  eyes  and  ears. 

But  with  Churchill,  up  to  a  certain  period,  there  was 
always  a  strong  mental  acquiesence,  a  latent  activity  of 
thought,  that  seized  and  sifted  each  incoming  message  from 
the  sense  channels.  Thus,  while  he  listened  and  watched, 
taking  joy  in  the  play  of  light  and  colour,  the  mauve  and 
amber  and  gold  of  the  priests'  vestments,  the  solemnity  of 
tall  acolytes  holding  the  immense  candles,  the  bowings  and 
genuflexions,  the  advances  and  the  withdrawals,  the  low 
murmurs  and  the  loud  bursts  of  song,  some  deep  inner  voice 
of  the  intellect  seemed  to  heighten  his  joy  by  its  sanction  and 
approval,  as  though  it  had  been  saying,  "This  satisfies  me. 
This  is  what  I  desired.  This  is  what  I  have  been  asking  for 
ever  since  I  was  a  child  and  first  began  to  think." 

But  after  a  point,  as  the  apotheosis  approached,  he  passed 
swiftly  into  the  realm  of  unreasoning  emotion.  The  sound 
of  the  bell  thrilled  him ;  the  odour  and  smoke  of  the  incense 
was  rolling  towards  him ;  the  eastern  wall  began  to  flash  and 
tremble.  Soft  beams  of  sunlight  made  a  heavenly  radiance 
high  above  the  priestly  heads  and  almost  prostrate  forms; 
then  down  below  all  seemed  to  grow  misty,  a  glittering  of 
gold  seen  through  veils  of  many-tinted  cloud,  in  which  one 
understood  rather  than  really  saw  the  Elevation  of  the  Host. 
And  thence  onward  it  was  adoration  and  delight.  It  was 
the  supreme  ecstasy. 

In  the  evening,  seated  at  supper  in  the  bare  and  shabby 
dining-room  of  St.  Bede's  vicarage,  he  was  begged  to 
describe  what  he  had  witnessed  at  the  West  End,  and  he 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  137 

always  did  so  freely.  Mrs.  Walsden,  standing  up  before  the 
cold  mutton,  would  stop  carving  and  vaguely  brandish  the 
big  knife,  so  astonished  did  she  feel;  Walsden,  engrossed, 
inadvertently  helped  himself  thrice  to  the  Barking  pickles; 
Gardiner  sighed  almost  enviously;  and  Mr.  Nape,  the  new 
curate,  who  was  a  shy,  tittering  kind  of  person,  gasped  and 
spluttered  while  he  drank  his  ginger  beer. 

"As  many  men  as  women!    How  can  he  manage  it?" 

"Crowded  for  Matins  too !    Wellf' 

Churchill  used  to  hand  round  the  church  magazine  that  he 
had  brought  with  him  from  the  marvellous  West  End  estab- 
lishment, and,  as  this  passed  from  one  to  another,  items 
were  read  aloud  to  a  chorus  of  ejaculation. 

"They've  made  a  League  for  the  young  ladies  at  three  of 
the  fashionable  drapers'  shops,"  read  out  Gardiner. 

"They  get  up  dances  for  them,"  read  Mr.  Nape.  "Oh! 
They  arrange  theatricals  for  them.  Fancy!"  And  he 
tittered. 

"I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Walsden,  nursing  the  magazine,  "that 
he  gave  twenty  guineas  to  Poplar.  .  .  .  And  ten  guineas  to 
the  Canning  Town  fund.  He  didn't  happen  to  think  of  us." 

Walsden  took  the  magazine  from  her,  and,  always  ready 
to  ignore  his  food,  read  assiduously. 

"Could  one  credit  it?  They  take  nearly  three  hundred 
pounds  at  a  single  offertory.  Why,  think  what  that  would 
come  to !  ...  Stay — here  it  is  in  black  and  white.  Their 
offertories  last  year  exceeded  five  thousand  pounds."  He 
held  the  magazine  above  his  head,  as  though  to  prevent  Mrs. 
Walsden  from  snatching  it,  and  stared  at  her  fixedly. 
"Emily,  do  you  hear?  Five  thousand  pounds!  Positively, 
it  makes  one's  mouth  water." 


XVII 

SOME  of  the  young  men  that  Edward  Churchill  met  in  the 
West  had  offered  to  visit  him  in  the  East.  "We  will,"  they 
declared.  "On  my  word,  I  mean  it.  ...  You  know, 
Churchill  has  the  worst  slum  of  all.  Isn't  it  sporting  of  him? 
We  mean  to  look  him  up.  ...  We  will,  old  chap. 
Hayling  shall  fix  a  date  with  you.  After  dinner,  of  course." 

And  one  Saturday  night  they  really  did  come  to  the  club 
— a  largish  party  of  youthful  bloods,  personally  conducted 
by  Richard  Hayling. 

The  visit  was  not  altogether  successful.  Walsden  did  not 
take  to  the  visitors,  and  soon  grew  huffy  and  standoffish  with 
them.  Obviously  they  had  merely  come  sightseeing.  They 
chattered  gaily  at  the  club,  looking  absurdly  big  and  strong 
and  prosperous  as  they  moved  about  among  the  undersized 
East-enders,  and  inciting  undue  noise  and  laughter. 

"Tell  us  some  more.  Go  on— out  with  it.  So  you  propped 
him  one  in  the  eye — ripping !" 

Edward  heard  their  silly  talk  in  all  directions,  but  it  could 
not  be  checked.  "Algy!"  one  of  them  cried  excitedly. 
"Come  over  here  and  talk  to  a  delightful  cove  I've  found. 
He  has  just  done  time." 

They  had  fastened  upon  a  coster,  an  unworthy  young  man, 
and  Churchill  heard  them  plying  him  with  silly  questions. 
"Which  is  the  rummiest  street?  Saturday!  You  have  all 
sorts  of  larks,  don't  you?  Can't  you  show  us  the  larks?" 
Churchill  tried  in  vain  to  get  them  away  from  their  coster. 
They  went  off  with  him — to  see  the  sights,  to  look  in  at  the 
music-hall,  to  stand  treat  at  whelk  stalls,  buy  hot  potatoes, 
and  watch  people  eat  hokey-pokey.  "Show  us  your  donahs 
too.  Trot  out  the  gals.  Bring  the  ladies.  Let  'em  all 
come." 

Churchill  looked  round,  and  only  Richard  Hayling  was 
left.  He  felt  ashamed  of  his  frivolous  crew,  and  insisted  on 
staying  at  the  club  till  nearly  the  end  of  the  evening. 

138 


THE  MIRROR  ANG  THE  LAM?  139 

Walsden  frowned,  and  going  out  to  the  pavement,  stood 
there,  as  if  the  interior  of  his  club  had  been  spoilt  for  him. 

But  within  a  few  days  all  the  foolish  visitors  had  sent 
Churchill  cheques  to  be  used  for  any  good  purpose  that  he 
pleased ;  and  when  he  handed  this  money  to  St.  Bede's  gen- 
eral purposes  fund,  Walsden  beamed,  rubbed  his  hands 
together,  and  was  again  well  content. 

A  little  while  after  this  Churchill  received  an  invitation 
to  preach  an  evening  sermon  at  the  Church  of  the  Cruci- 
fixion. Walsden  again  begged  him  to  accept  the  invitation, 
and  talked  much  about  it  at  meals. 

"Have  you  heard  the  news  ?  Our  star  preacher  is  required 
in  Mayfair  now.  We  shall  have  him  summoned  to  the 
Chapel  Royal  or  Buckingham  Palace  before  we  can  look 
round ;"  and  he  spoke  to  Churchill  facetiously  and  yet  wist- 
fully. "I  fear  me,  this  is  the  beginning  of  the  end  for  poor 
old  St.  Bede's.  They  won't  let  us  keep  you  to  ourselves; 
they  mean  to  get  you  away  as  soon  as  they  can."  And  he 
turned  to  his  wife,  "Emily,  you  must  fetch  out  your  best 
bonnet  and  mantle,  and  go  and  hear  him  thunder  at  the 
swells." 

Mrs.  Walsden  said  that  she  must  wait  for  a  new  bonnet 
before  she  dared  to  face  Mayfair,  and,  moreover,  she  had 
her  sewing-club  on  the  evening  in  question. 

At  this  week-day  evening  service  Father  Bryan's  congre- 
gation was  drawn  from  other  classes  of  society  than  those 
that  mustered  in  such  strength  on  Sundays.  The  hour 
clashed  with  dinner-time,  and  the  fashionable  world  was 
scarcely  represented  at  all.  In  lieu  of  the  smart  young  men 
there  were  clerks,  shop-assistants,  business  people  from  the 
suburbs ;  and  the  women's  side  of  the  church  was  sparsely 
occupied  by  shop  girls,  typists,  governesses,  and — to  Father 
Bryan's  great  pride — a  few  chorus  girls,  or  ballet  dancers, 
who  would  be  presently  pulling  on  silk  tights  and  painting 
their  faces  in  the  dressing-rooms  of  a  popular  theatre  or 
music-hall. 

Churchill  preached  once  more  on  prayer,  and  at  first  felt 
nervous  and  uncertain  of  himself,  finding  the  management 
of  his  voice  difficult,  seeming  to  bark  or  bellow  each  time 
that  he  tried  to  give  emphasis  to  a  phrase,  but  getting  on 
better  as  soon  as  he  understood  that,  thanks  to  the  perfect 


140  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

acoustic  properties  of  the  building,  every  word  would  carry 
without  effort  to  the  furthest  corner.  After  the  service 
Father  Bryan  thanked  him  warmly,  assured  him  that  he 
had  been  quite  a  success,  and  begged  him  to  come  into  the 
adjacent  vicarage  for  some  late  dinner. 

Churchill  excused  himself.  He  had  to  get  back  to  St. 
Bede's. 

"Then  good-night — or  rather  au  revoir;  for  I  count  on 
your  coming  again.  I'll  drop  you  a  line.  Yes,  I'll  write  to 
you  to-morrow — or  the  day  after." 

The  promised  letter,  duly  arriving  and  being  submitted  for 
consideration,  made  Mr.  Walsden  skip  round  his  study, 
shout,  and  wave  his  arms  in  jubilation.  Father  Bryan  asked 
Churchill  to  preach  upon  the  efficacy  of  prayer  on  a  Sunday 
morning,  and  to  accept  the  offertory  for  St.  Bede's. 

"When  does  he  say?"  cried  Walsden.  "Fortnight.  That 
will  be  July  the  third.  The  height  of  the  London  season. 
The  cream  of  his  offertories.  Oh,  where  is  that  magazine? 
Churchill,  how  can  we  thank  you  ?  My  wife  will  shed  tears 
of  joy,"  and  he  went  shouting  into  the  hall.  "Emily,  famous 
news !  Emily !  Where  is  Bryan's  magazine  ?  I  want  to  see 
what  they  took  the  first  Sunday  in  July  last  year." 

It  was  the  finest  possible  congregation  that  Churchill  sur- 
veyed from  the  low  octagonal  pulpit.  Outside  the  sun  shone, 
the  streets  were  clean  and  dry,  kind  people  who  did  not  wish 
to  bring  out  their  horses  and  coachmen  could  safely  walk 
to  church ;  all  might  wear  their  best  clothes  without  distress 
of  mind.  That  regular  attendant,  the  Duke  of  Danes- 
borough,  was  in  his  place;  Hayling  had  come;  the  young 
men  were  in  great  force ;  the  ladies  overflowed  their  allotted 
space,  and  a  few  of  them  had  to  be  insinuated  near  the  win- 
dows on  the  men's  side. 

Churchill  felt  complete  confidence.  Beginning  quietly  he 
immediately  got  the  right  pitch  of  voice,  and  was  sustained 
throughout  the  sermon  by  a  conviction,  equivalent  to  cer- 
tainty, that  he  held  and  interested  his  auditors.  He  wound 
up  by  telling  them  that  death-bed  story  of  the  man  who  said 
"Wonderful !" ;  and  when  he  ceased  speaking,  there  was  a 
sympathetic  rustle,  a  wave  of  very  slight  movement  that 
seemed  to  come  rolling  towards  him  right  through  the 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  141 

church  until  it  broke  against  the  stone  of  the  pulpit — a  mani- 
festation that  plainly  represented  the  round  after  round  of 
applause  which  preachers  can  never  hear  while  they  remain 
in  consecrated  places.  When  he  went  back  to  his  choir  stall 
he  was  glowing,  excited,  joyously  proud.  He  did  not  really 
need  the  friendly,  approving  glance  of  Father  Bryan  to  tell 
him  that  he  had  made  a  complete,  an  unusually  big  success. 
Presently,  during  the  interval  between  the  offices,  when  he 
and  all  the  clergy  were  in  the  vestry,  he  listened  to  many 
congratulations,  and  would  have  had  more  but  for  the  fact 
that  Bryan  was  busily  devoting  himself  to  a  young  Colonial 
bishop  who  had  arrived  for  the  Mass. 

But  he  thought  no  more  of  himself  after  they  had  re- 
entered  the  church;  and  at  the  end  of  the  Mass  he  was 
tranquil,  normal,  innocently  happy.  If  glory  there  were,  he 
had  given  the  glory  where  all  glory  is  due. 

Father  Bryan  had  insisted  that  to-day  he  should  stay  for 
luncheon,  and,  as  he  walked  through  a  cloister  leading  from 
the  church  to  the  adjacent  vicarage,  he  thought  how  curi- 
ously the  ground  plan  and  general  arrangement  of  the  build- 
ings resembled  St.  Bede's,  and  yet  how  astoundingly  differ- 
ent everything  was  in  all  other  respects.  Most  of  the  guests, 
making  their  way  through  the  open  courtyard,  had  already 
gathered  in  a  large  soberly  decorated  room  that  might 
be  called  a  library  if  you  looked  at  its  book-cases,  or  a  draw- 
ing-room if  you  merely  considered  its  luxuriousness.  To- 
day, as  rarely  happened,  ladies  were  of  the  party,  and  Rich- 
ard Hayling  told  Churchill  confidently  that  he  thought  their 
admission  a  mistake.  Bryan's  luncheon  parties  were  de- 
lightful informal  affairs  at  which  men  talked  freely,  and  the 
presence  of  women,  in  his  opinion,  not  only  puts  an  irk- 
some restraint  on  one's  choice  of  topics,  but  infallibly  de- 
stroys intelligent  conversation  on  any  subject.  Having  said 
this,  he  at  once  introduced  Churchill  to  a  Lady  Eliza  Some- 
body, her  pretty  daughter,  and  Miss  Yenning,  the  famous 
actress. 

Among  the  male  guests,  as  well  as  one  of  Bryan's  clergy 
and  the  Colonial  bishop,  there  were  the  Duke  of  Danes- 
borough,  the  editor  of  a  daily  newspaper,  a  very  well-known 
Radical  M.  P.,  and  old  Lord  Menston,  revered  in  all  Catho- 
lic circles  as  the  munificent  patron,  if  not  the  actual  origi- 


142  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

nator,  of  the  Bournemouth  Fraternity ;  and  in  regard  to  the 
rest  of  the  men  one  felt  instinctively  that  each  was  without 
question  a  personage  of  some  importance,  by  reason  of 
wealth,  rank,  or  individual  power.  If  he  had  been  nobody 
and  had  never  done  anything  remarkable,  he  could  not 
possibly  be  there. 

Father  Bryan  took  Churchill  from  the  actress  and  Hayling 
in  order  to  present  him  to  the  bishop,  and  these  three  stood 
for  a  little  while  talking  together  quite  away  from  all  the 
others.  After  more  compliments  about  the  sermon  Bryan 
told  the  bishop  he  ought  to  have  come  at  Matins.  He  had 
missed  something  worth  hearing.  "I  think  you  are  so 
wise,  Churchill  in "  Then  he  hastily  moved  off  to  re- 
ceive another  lady. 

He  came  back  directly.  "What  was  I  saying?  Oh,  yes, 
half  the  bother  with  brilliant  young  men  like  yourself  is  that 
they  will  address  themselves  to  points  of  dogma  instead  of 
to  broad  principles.  Now  that  is  a  mistake." 

Edward  Churchill  said  it  was  what  he  himself  had  felt, 
and  indeed  had  told  Walsden. 

But  at  the  name  of  Walsden  Father  Bryan  made 
something  like  a  wry  face.  Then,  with  an  effort,  he  spoke 
genially.  "I  have  never  met  Mr.  Walsden.  But  you  really 
like  him?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

Father  Bryan  laughed.  "Then  I'll  like  him  for  your  sake. 
By  the  by,  you'll  be  wanting  to  know  what  the  offertory 
was.  I  must  ask.  You  have  immense  poverty  out  there?" 

"Immense." 

"Just  so.  ...  Ah,  here  is  that  naughty  Lady  Eva. 
Always  late !  .  .  .  Lady  Eva,  don't  trouble  to  apologise : 
because  we  have  not  been  waiting  for  you.  But  now  that 
you  have  turned  up,  you  can  lead  the  way  into  the  other 
room." 

At  the  luncheon  table  Churchill  sat  next  to  the  Duke  of 
Danesborough,  who  was  very  amiable,  and  across  whom  the 
actress  leaned  and  talked  volubly.  She  flashed  her  large 
eyes,  gasped,  and  laid  both  hands  upon  her  heart  in  a  pretty, 
exaggerated,  theatrical  manner  when  speaking  of  the  ser- 
mon. On  Churchill's  other  side  the  newspaper  editor  was 
asking  old  Menston  about  a  recent  debate  of  the  Lords,  and 


143 

in  all  directions  there  were  light  questions  and  answers, 
gaiety  and  laughter. 

Churchill  did  not  notice  how  the  ladies  at  the  far  end  of 
the  table  were  looking  at  him,  nor  guess  that  they  were 
talking  about  him. 

"Of  course,"  said  one  of  them,  "it's  how  nice  he  looks 
rather  than  what  he  says." 

"Yes,  with  such  a  face " 

"But  I  liked  his  voice  too." 

And  they  all  agreed  that  they  greatly  admired  his  voice  as 
well  as  his  appearance,  and  also  his  extraordinary  self- 
possession. 

"Father  Bryan  says  he  is  absurdly  young.  But  something 
has  aged  him.  I  am  certain  there  is  some  tremendous 
romance  in  that  man's  life.  He  had  some  great  love  affair, 
and  that  sent  him  into  the  Church." 

"Bosh,"  said  Hayling.  "If  you  want  to  know  the  ugly 
truth,  he  is  a  confirmed  woman-hater." 

"Yes,  now  possibly,"  said  the  lady.  "But  that  is  since 
his  great  disappointment,"  and  she  laughed  gaily. 

"Poor  lamb,"  said  Lady  Eva.  "I  hope  he'll  be  consoled 
one  day.  I'm  quite  sure  he'll  find  people  willing  to  try." 

Hayling  unobtrusively  turned  his  shoulder  and  talked  to 
the  man  next  him.  He  was  more  than  ever  persuaded  that  a 
mistake  had  been  made  in  admitting  ladies. 

They  smoked  at  the  end  of  the  meal,  and  this  was  the 
first  time  that  Churchill  had  ever  seen  women  with  cigar- 
ettes in  their  mouths. 

He  was  not  in  the  least  shocked.  He  had  dropped  quite 
easily  into  his  place  among  these  strange  people  and  new 
surroundings,  and  he  felt  conscious  of  the  charm  exercised 
by  the  whole  thing.  Listening  to  the  newspaper  editor  and 
the  Radical  Member  of  Parliament  as  they  held  forth 
about  politics,  or  to  the  actress  as  she  narrated  the  plot  of  a 
forthcoming  play,  he  thought,  "These  are  the  worldly  lead- 
ers. These  are  the  unexpected  but  faithful  allies  splendidly 
won  by  the  Church." 

He  blew  out  little  clouds  of  perfumed  smoke,  sipped  the 
delicious  strong  coffee,  and  seemed  to  be  altogether  at  home 
— in  just  the  kind  of  home  that  he  was  destined  later  on  to 
occupy. 


144  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

The  brown  paneling  gave  the  room  dignity,  the  low- 
beamed  ceiling  made  it  picturesque ;  on  the  long  table,  amidst 
the  cut  glass  and  piled  fruit,  there  were  great  silver  pots 
filled  with  pink  tulips ;  the  latticed  windows  stood  open,  and 
their  short  silk  curtains  flapped  lazily,  showing  glimpses  of 
the  railed  court,  the  roadway,  and  fine  carriages  that  passed 
now  and  then.  It  seemed  difficult  to  think  that  it  was  Sun- 
day, and  not  easy  to  remember  St.  Bede's  Institute,  the  rail- 
way arches,  or  those  huddled  dwellings  beside  the  canal. 

After  luncheon,  when  the  guests  were  beginning  to  dis- 
perse, he  and  Hayling  found  themselves  together,  and 
Hayling  called  to  the  Duke  of  Danesborough  to  join  them. 

"Danesborough,"  said  Hayling  smilingly,  "do  something 
for  Churchill." 

Danesborough  laughed.  "Only  too  delighted.  But  what 
can  your  servant  possibly  do,  except  thank  Mr.  Churchill 
for  his  sermon  ?  I've  done  that  already ;  but  I'm  sure  I  do 
it  again — and  very  sincerely." 

"Oh,  rats,"  said  Hayling.  "Churchill  isn't  a  suitor  or  a 
courtier — very  much  the  reverse;  and  he'll  probably  slang 
me  for  my  interference  afterwards ; — but  we  don't  want  him 
to  hide  his  light  under  a  bushel  much  longer."  And  he 
went  on  with  emphasis.  "It  is  a  light  that  ought  to  shine 
in  its  proper  place" 

"I've  no  doubt  it  ought,"  said  the  Duke,  looking  rather 
puzzled. 

"We  think" — and  Hayling  put  his  hand  on  Churchill's 
shoulder — "we  think  he  has  taken  a  wrong  turning — or  that 
he  is  going  down  a  lane  that  has  no  turning — and  we  want 
you  to  open  out  a  real  road  for  him." 

All  this  made  Churchill  uncomfortable,  and  he  tried  to 
get  away. 

"Good-bye,"  said  Danesborough.  "Are  you  ever  available 
at  the  dinner  hour?  Could  you  dine  with  me  at  my  club 
one  night  this  week?  You  too,  Hayling?" 

But  Edward  Churchill  could  not  dine  with  the  Duke.  He 
was  never  free  between  eight  and  ten  o'clock  at  night. 

In  the  hall,  where  the  departing  ladies  still  made  chatter 
and  fun,  Father  Bryan  shook  hands  with  him  hurriedly,  and 
then  called  after  him. 

"Churchill !    It  was  three-seventeen,  two  and  nine.    They 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  145 

will  send  you  the  cheque  to-morrow.  Au  plaisir  de  vous 
revoir." 

"Where  do  you  say  you'll  get  your  omnibus?"  asked 
Hayling.  "Oxford  Street?  All  right.  I'll  walk  with  you;" 
and  they  strolled  away  together,  through  a  wide  square,  by 
huge  porches  of  opulent  houses  where  footmen  yawned 
vacuously  at  the  sunlight  and  the  sky. 

"I'm  glad,"  said  Hayling,  "that  you've  met  Danesborough. 
He's  an  old  friend  of  mine.  And,  I  say,  it's  a  pity  you  didn't 
agree  to  take  just  one  night  off  when  he  asked  you.  If  he 
should  make  any  further  overtures,  I  hope  you  won't  snub 
him.  Although  so  young,  he  is  at  this  moment  perhaps  the 
most  important  man  in  England." 

"Really?" 

"Yes.  He  is  not  yet  fully  aware  of  it  himself.  It  is  the 
force  of  circumstances." 

"But  how  do  you  mean  ?" 

Hayling  explained  that  the  Duke  of  Danesborough,  by 
reason  of  his  position  as  a  layman,  had  become  the  ambassa- 
dor or  intermediary  between  the  head  of  the  Church  and 
the  advanced  party.  "At  this  moment,"  he  said,  "we  are 
approaching  a  crisis.  There  is  either  going  to  be  an  accom- 
modation or  a  most  tremendous  split.  I  need  not  tell  you 
that  we  stand  firm  as  the  rock.  We  do  not  sue  hat  in  hand 
for  tolerance;  we  claim  liberty  as  our  right.  To-day  the 
Church  of  the  Crucifixion  appears  startingly  conspicuous. 
It  is  talked  about,  written  about — people  express  wonder  that 
the  Archbishop  permits  it.  But  all  that  we  saw  there  this 
morning  will  in  twenty  years  be  the  practice  of  every 
parish  church.  The  Archbishop  understands  this  as  clearly 
as  you  or  I.  He  is  for  the  time  impotent — unable  to  support 
us,  unable  to  resist  us.  It  is  a  gross  injustice  to  say  he  trims 
his  sails  to  the  wind.  As  a  wise  ruler  he  does  what  is  pos- 
sible, and  does  not  attempt  the  impossible.  In  spirit  he  is 
always  with  us,  if  in  act  he  sometimes  seems  against  us." 

Hayling  further  enlarged  upon  the  sort  of  confidential 
negotiations  that  were  being  carried  on  through  the  Duke 
and  again  dwelt  upon  the  point  that  only  a  laymen  could 
be  thus  employed.  "No  cleric  could  safely  be  received  at 
headquarters  as  our  representative." 


XVIII 

Two  days  later  a  polite  little  note  arrived  from  the  Duke 
of  Danesborough,  saying  that  he  had  some  business  to  do  at 
Lambeth  Palace  on  the  following  afternoon  and  he  wished  to 
take  this  opportunity  of  making  Churchill  known  to  the 
Primate. 

Without  hesitation  Churchill  availed  himself  of  this  kind 
offer ;  presenting  himself  at  Hedwick  House  as  he  had  been 
directed,  and  almost  immediately  driving  off  with  Danes- 
borough  in  a  small  brougham  attached  to  a  very  big  horse. 

It  happened  that  he  had  never  till  now  been  given  an 
occasion  for  observing  the  gaiety  and  brightness  that 
London,  at  this  end  of  it,  can  show  early  on  a  summer  after- 
noon when  all  the  frivolous  world  has  come  out  in  search  of 
pleasure.  A  block  of  carriages  delayed  them  in  Piccadilly. 
Girls  dressed  like  fairies  passed  slowly  by,  silk  hato  were 
shining,  and  all  the  brass  harness  flashed  as  if  it  had  been 
made  of  burnished  gold.  People  smiled  and  nodded  to  one 
another,  and  in  every  face  there  was  an  expression  of  com- 
placency that  seemed  to  say,  "Oh,  it  is  nice  to  be  rich  and 
idle  and  beautifully  dressed." 

They  went  fast  down  St.  James's  Street,  past  the  stone 
club-houses,  by  the  gatehouse  and  cloisters  of  the  palace, 
and  on  beneath  the  green  trees  in  the  park.  Here  each 
glance  lighted  on  something  charming — the  smooth  grass, 
the  vivid  flowers,  the  sparkle  of  the  water,  and  through  un- 
expected vistas  a  mass  of  buildings  with  the  towers  of  West- 
minster high  and  grand  beyond. 

Danesborough  talked  in  the  easy  jovial  style  of  one  under- 
graduate speaking  to  another. 

"Rather  a  redoubtable  old  party,  you  know.  Not  too  easy 
to  get  on  with,  they  say,  as  a  rule,  but  he's  always  very 
decent  to  me." 

And  he  said  a  few  words  about  Oxford. 

"When  did  you  come  down?  .  .  .  Ah,  then  I  was  your 
senior  by  a  lot.  .  .  .  There  was  a  rascal  of  a  nigger  who 

146 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  147 

played  the  banjo.  A  most  impudent  blackguard;"  and  he 
chuckled,  as  if  amused  by  his  recollections.  "Not  a  sooty- 
face — a  real  negro.  I  can't  remember  what  they  called  him." 

"Bandy  Jack?" 

"Yes.  Bandy  Jack ;"  and  Danesborough  chuckled  heart- 
ily. "Oh,  that  fellow's  impudence!  I  always  used  to  have 
him  at  my  rooms  for  breakfasts  and  luncheons." 

Edward  Churchill  answered  other  questions  automatically, 
thinking  the  while  how  wonderful  it  all  was.  He  was  being 
taken  to  see  the  English  pontiff,  the  august  successor  to  those 
saints,  Augustine  and  Dunstan,  the  last  representative  of  the 
long  glorious  line  of  priests  that  had  held  the  supreme  office. 
A  hundred  memories  of  the  old  school  days  came  to  him. 
He  thought  of  the  Martyr's  Feast,  of  the  Annual  Letter ;  and 
also  of  an  imagination  or  vision  of  the  Archbishop  standing 
on  the  steps  outside  the  great  western  door  of  the  cathedral, 
holding  out  his  hands,  and  blessing  the  Pilgrim's  road. 

After  they  had  crossed  the  river,  and  when  they  drew  near 
to  the  dark  time-stained  walls,  he  could  not  speak.  He 
could  only  move  his  head,  trying  to  catch  first  glimpses  of 
the  Lollards'  Tower. 

Churchill  had  been  left  in  an  ante-room  while  the  Duke 
transacted  his  business,  whatever  it  might  be,  and  when  at 
last  he  was  summoned  he  felt  his  heart  begin  to  beat  tumul- 
tuously.  Reverence  and  awe  had  suddenly  been  stirred  by 
excitement.  A  chaplain  and  a  secretary  coming  out  passed 
him  as  he  went  in. 

He  had  a  rapid  impression  of  a  large  and  unexpectedly 
cold  room,  some  logs  of  wood  smouldering  on  the  hearth, 
and  the  sunlight  seeming  veiled  and  unnatural  as  one  saw 
vaguely  through  closed  windows  a  stretch  of  lawn,  blackened 
buildings,  and  the  river.  Danesborough  stood  by  one  of 
several  writing-tables;  and  the  Archbishop,  with  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  back,  ambled  about  between  another  table 
and  the  fire.  He  was  old  and  big ;  his  bushy  eyebrows  had  a 
portentous  frown ;  there  were  deep  wrinkles  on  each  side  of 
his  lips.  His  voice  sounded  harsh  and  grating,  and  there 
were  curious  modulations  in  it  that  appeared  to  be  beyond 
his  control,  so  that  from  a  growl  it  rose  almost  to  a  squeak 
and  then  abruptly  deepened  again;  but  his  smile  was  kind 


148  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

and  gentle.  Seen  thus,  without  the  robes,  and  close  to  one,  he 
seemed  absolutely  different  from  the  man  Churchill  had 
watched  from  a  distance  at  St.  Dunstan's. 

Smiling,  he  said  that  he  was  pleased  to  make  Mr.  Church- 
ill's acquaintance.  Then  he  growled. 

"Tell  me  a  little  about  yourself." 

And  Edward  Churchill  said  that  he  was  a  St.  Martyr's 

boy. 

"What,  are  you  one  of  my  well-beloved?"  and  the  Arch- 
bishop laughed  gratingly.  "No  wonder  people  speak  highly 
of  you.  My  Martyrites  always  do  me  credit.  .  .  .  Well, 
what  next?" 

Churchill  was  at  a  loss  what  to  say.  But  then,  very 
modestly,  he  narrated  how  while  at  Oxford  he  had  enjoyed 
the  honour  of  receiving  a  letter  from  his  Grace. 

"Did  you?    What  about?" 

"A  little  paper  that  I  wrote  in  a  review.'" 

And  finally  the  Archbishop  remembered.  "Yes,  I  remem- 
ber perfectly;"  and  he  turned  to  Danesborough.  "Your 
friend  can  use  his  pen  as  well  as  his  tongue." 

Danesborough  chuckled  amiably,  pleased  that  his  protege 
was  coming  out  in  so  favourable  a  light. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Archbishop,  frowning,  "I  distinctly  re- 
member. I  was  struck  by  it.  People  talked  about  it.  It 
was  excellent." 

And,  listening  to  these  words  of  praise,  Edward  Churchill 
had  a  curious  sensation  of  pride  and  pleasure  that  was 
touched  with  sadness.  Through  the  furthest  window  he 
could  see  at  a  distance  the  river  flowing  by ;  without  seeing 
them,  he  was  aware  of  the  towers,  the  gates,  and  courts,  and 
steps,  the  majesty  of  this  ancient  palace  stretching  its  stone 
lengths  far  and  near ;  and  he  thought,  "How  wonderful  all 
this  is — that  my  dream  is  realising  itself;  that,  as  if  by 
some  force  over  which  I  have  no  control,  without  making 
the  slightest  effort,  drifted  like  a  cork  upon  that  stream,  or 
moved  like  a  pawn  upon  the  vast  chess-board  of  Church  pol- 
itics, I  find  myself  here.  Then  this  must  be  the  great  hour 
of  my  life,  the  moment  of  crisis,  the  turning-point  that 
decides  whither  I  go,  what  I  become."  Instinct,  as  well  as 
thought,  told  him  that  this  was  so,  and  that  all  he  had  hoped 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  149 

for  would  now  easily  come  to  him.  And  yet  he  felt  no  ela- 
tion, only  increasing  dullness  or  coldness. 

The  Archbishop  went  on  speaking.  "So  I  wrote  to  you? 
What  did  I  say?" 

"You  were  good  enough  to  say  that  I  might  come  and  pay 
my  respects  to  you." 

"And  did  you  come  ?" 

"No,  your  Grace." 

"Why  didn't  you?"   And  the  Archbishop  frowned. 

"I  didn't  venture." 

"Didn't  venture — when  I  told  you?  Didn't  venture  to 
obey  orders?"  Then  he  turned  to  the  Duke,  and  smiled. 
"There.  Rebellious,  to  a  man!  So  young,  but  so  full  of 
defiance.  Can  you  be  astonished  at  what  they  say  in  the 
penny  newspapers?  Open  revolt.  .  .  .  That  was  how 
long  ago,  when  I  wrote  to  you,  Mr.  Churchill  ?" 

"Four  years,  your  Grace." 

"Now  that  you  have  come,  what  do  you  want  of  me?" 

Edward  Churchill  felt  a  sudden  assurance,  a  certainty  of 
voice  and  action  that  rendered  hesitation  impossible. 

"I  want  your  blessing ;"  and  he  dropped  upon  his  knees. 

There  was  surprise  as  well  as  searching  scrutiny  in  the 
glance  that  shot  down  at  him  from  puckered  brows.  Then 
the  old  man  smiled  as  kind  people  smile  at  little  children, 
half  closed  his  eyes,  and,  looking  upward  again,  very  sol- 
emnly blessed  his  young  visitor. 

Five  minutes  later,  Churchill  was  driving  away  in  Danes- 
borough's  brougham. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  the  Duke  cheerily.  "He  was 
quite  decent,  wasn't  he?  I  always  find  him  jolly  enough — • 
and  I  don't  know  why  people  are  so  down  on  him.  Anyhow, 
he  isn't  a  humbug." 

Then,  when  Churchill  thanked  him  for  his  kindness  in 
procuring  the  great  privilege  of  this  interview,  he  altogether 
refused  to  accept  thanks.  "Oh,  no,  not  a  bit.  Only  too 
pleased — directly  it  was  suggested  to  me.  I'm  sure  I  hope 
something  may  come  of  it." 

He  was  to  drive  Churchill  as  far  as  Westminster,  having 
himself  to  look  in  at  the  Lords  for  half  an  hour;  but  now  he 
offered  to  send  his  companion  up  to  the  Strangers'  Gallery. 


150  THE  MIRROR  AND.  THE  LAMP 

"The  debate  won't  be  worth  listening  to,"  he  said.  "But  it 
may  amuse  you  to  have  a  peep  at  us — and,  of  course,  you 
can  go  out  directly  you  are  bored." 

Soon  then  Churchill  was  seated  in  the  gallery,  leaning  his 
chin  on  his  arms,  and  with  intense  interest  staring  down  into 
the  famous  assembly-hall.  As  just  now  at  Lambeth,  so  here, 
thronging  memories  of  history,  tradition,  and  sentiment 
rushed  into  his  mind.  He  had  imagined  it  all  so  often,  but 
now  for  the  first  time  he  was  really  seeing  the  red  benches 
and  gilded  walls,  the  high  painted  windows,  the  open  doors 
of  the  Princes'  Chamber,  the  woolsack,  and  the  throne. 
Listening  to  the  languid  voices  of  great  peers,  watching  a 
couple  of  bishops  in  lawn  sleeves,  studying  the  quiet  pomp 
and  sober  magnificence  of  ushers  and  officials,  he  felt  a  sat- 
isfied approbation.  Everything  was  as  impressive  as  he  had 
ever  pictured  it  in  his  imagination. 

These  were  the  time-honoured  ruling  classes.  One  could 
catch  the  same  note  in  every  voice.  They  were  so  accus- 
tomed to  power  that  they  exercised  it  as  naturally  as  if  it 
had  been  an  organic  process,  such  as  drawing  one's  breath ; 
yet  loving  power,  however  languid  they  appeared;  pleased 
with  themselves  in  an  easy,  dignified  manner;  seeming  to 
say :  "Yes,  it  is  nice,  as  well  as  fitting  and  proper,  that  I  was 
born  to  high  rank  and  large  revenues,  so  that  I  do  this  sort 
of  thing  between  luncheon  and  dinner  instead  of  perspir- 
ing in  manual  toil  on  a  half -penny  stomach." 

When  he  came  out  he  stood  on  Westminster  Bridge,  look- 
ing at  the  graceful  sunlit  bulk  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament 
and  the  dark  grim  towers  of  Lambeth  Palace.  Then  he 
walked  eastward  along  the  Embankment,  past  the  new  castle 
of  Scotland  Yard,  huge  hotels  that  looked  like  fortresses,  a 
pile  of  flats  as  big  as  a  granite  mountain;  past  Somerset 
House,  the  resting  place  of  rich  men's  testaments,  and  the 
Temple,  home  of  the  clever  and  well-paid  lawyers  who  upset 
one's  death-bed  wishes;  past  offices,  institutions,  more 
hotels ; — and  he  was  still  among  the  ruling  classes.  Money- 
making  City-men  came  sweeping  by  in  cabs  and  carriages 
after  their  short  successful  day.  No  poverty  was  anywhere 
visible.  All  seemed  grand,  fine,  prosperous.  And  he  had  an 
illusion  that  these  contented,  self-satisfied  people  all  looked 
at  him  with  friendly  approval,  greeting  him,  welcoming  him, 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  151 

conveying  to  him  a  universal  message  of  good-will,  as  if 
they  had  said:  "Your  probation  is  over.  Now  you  may  join 
us.  We  admit  you  to  our  select  community,  and  you  too 
shall  rule  and  amass  and  grow  fat." 

At  Black  friars  he  got  into  an  underground  train,  and  went 
back  through  the  darkness  and  foul  atmosphere  of  many 
tunnels  to  what  are  generally  known  as  "the  slums." 


XIX 

HE  had  not  long  to  wait  before  something  came  of  that 
afternoon  spent  with  a  duke  in  the  West  End. 

Before  the  week  was  over  he  received  a  communication 
from  the  Archbishop.  It  was  formal,  official,  written  by  a 
secretary,  and  it  informed  him  that  his  Grace  proposed  to 
appoint  him  to  be  one  of  his  chaplains,  that  he  might  con- 
sider this  appointment  as  made  pro  tern,  until  the  chance  of 
preferment  should  offer,  when  he  would  be  passed  on  to 
more  important  work.  It  further  requested  Mr.  Churchill 
to  reply  at  once,  and,  in  the  event  of  the  proposal  being 
agreeable  to  him,  to  say  the  earliest  date  whereon  he  could 
conveniently  take  up  his  residence  at  Lambeth  Palace. 

Churchill  sat  as  if  spell-bound,  folding  and  unfolding  the 
stiff  white  sheet  of  paper,  reading  and  re-reading  the  mar- 
vellous written  words,  seeming  every  instant  to  grow  larger 
and  heavier.  There  was  a  massive  feeling  of  satisfaction,  a 
notion  of  unquestionable  power,  a  complete  and  absolute 
confidence ;  but  then  soon,  marring  these  pleasurable  sensa- 
tions, there  came  a  strange  sort  of  fluttered  excitement.  He 
could  no  longer  sit  still.  It  was  necessary  to  move  about 
rapidly  and  continuously. 

He  hurried  off  to  tell  Walsden  his  news.  Walsden  heart- 
ily congratulated  him. 

"To  us  it  is  a  loss — I  make  no  pretence  about  that.  But 
it  is  a  loss  I  was  always  prepared  for.  I  can  see  how  glad 
you  are — my  dear  boy;"  and  he  took  Churchill's  hand  and 
squeezed  it  affectionately. 

"I  am  only  glad  because  it  realises  my  ambition;  it  is  a 
step  forward  on  the  path  I  had  been  vain  enough  to  plan." 

"No  vanity — very  proper  and  noble  ambition,"  said 
Walsden. 

And  a  little  later  in  the  day,  meeting  Churchill  again,  he 
said,  "Of  course  you  have  written?" 

"No,  not  yet.    I  want  to  think  it  over." 

"What  can  you  have  to  think  over  ?" 

152 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  153 

"I'm  so  sorry  to  leave  you." 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  bother  about  that.  We  who  are  left 
may  be  sorry,  but  you  who  go  must  be  glad.  I  should  write 
at  once,  if  I  were  you.  Any  delay  might  seem  not  quite 
respectful  enough,  you  know." 

"As  to-day  is  Saturday,  I  thought  I  could  safely  wait  till 
Monday.  There's  no  postal  delivery  to-morrow." 

"Perhaps  you  ought  to  send  your  letter  by  a  special  mes- 
senger. As  you  know,  I  am  not  up  in  these  matters;  but 
I  believe  one  cannot  be  too  ceremonious." 

For  the  remainder  of  the  day  Edward  Churchill  suffered 
from  an  abominable  restlessness.  It  was  impossible  to  work, 
because  he  couldn't  attend  for  three  minutes  at  a  time  to 
what  he  was  trying  to  do;  his  mind  wandered  off  to  more 
important  matters;  in  imagination  he  was  miles  away — 
pacing  through  the  halls  or  library  of  Lambeth  Palace, 
sitting  in  the  Archbishop's  room  and  writing  a  confidential 
secret  paper  at  his  dictation,  hurrying  to  the  House  of  Lords 
for  a  special  interview  with  two  or  three  bishops.  He 
wanted  to  write  to  his  mother,  but  found  that  he  could  not 
do  it.  He  thought  he  would  go  to  St.  Ursula's  for  a  talk 
with  the  Verschoyles,  and  he  could  not  do  that  either.  He 
could  only  wander  about  the  streets  aimlessly,  enervating 
himself  with  foolish  excitement. 

In  the  evening  at  the  club  he  discovered  that  Walsden  had 
already  announced  his  imminent  departure.  Everybody  had 
heard  the  news,  and  all  regretted  it.  Old  and  young,  they 
crowded  round  him,  overwhelming  him  by  their  kindness 
and  affection.  He  was  especially  touched  by  the  eager  out- 
bursts of  praise  and  gratitude  that  came  from  a  cluster  of 
Brigade  lads ;  and  when  he  looked  at  the  opaque  brown  eyes, 
like  Richard's — the  eyes  that  he  once  thought  indicative  of 
baseness  or  greed — they  seemed  to  be  like  the  eyes  of  trust- 
ful dogs  sadly  scrutinising  the  face  of  their  master  when  he 
meditates  selling  them,  giving  them  away,  or  deserting  them 
in  danger  for  the  purpose  of  ensuring  his  own  safety. 

The  restlessness  increased.  He  could  not  sleep.  He 
dressed  himself  next  morning  much  earlier  than  was  neces- 
sary for  the  first  service  at  St.  Bede's,  and,  going  up  to  the 
top  landing  of  Bentley  House,  stood  for  a  long  time  looking 
out.  On  this  the  day  of  rest  the  whole  house  remained  quiet 


154  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

until  eight  or  nine  o'clock ;  behind  all  the  closed  doors  men 
and  women  were  sleeping  deeply  after  the  week's  work ;  only 
every  now  and  then  one  heard  faintly  the  voices  of  children 
who  had  been  awakened  by  the  daylight.  On  this  day,  too, 
hundreds  of  factory  chimneys  had  ceased  to  emit  their  ugly 
smoke,  so  that  the  air  was  clean,  and  the  sky  seemed  high  and 
dazzlingly  bright. 

He  looked  across  thousands  of  roofs  at  the  firm  outline  of 
the  Tower  Bridge,  and  thought  of  all  that  lay  beyond  it. 
The  line  of  the  bridge,  continued  in  either  direction  to  north 
and  south,  might  be  taken  as  a  boundary  between  two  worlds 
— the  grand  small  world  of  pride  and  pomp,  and  the  immense 
world  of  unrecognised  pain  and  unrewarded  toil.  Patches 
of  misery  there  were,  of  course,  beyond  the  line  to  the  south 
of  the  water,  but  the  great  division  between  ease  and  dis- 
tress was  that  of  east  and  west.  In  thought  he  passed  the 
line ;  followed  the  shining  river  beneath  bridge  after  bridge, 
by  the  now  silent  mart  of  the  city,  by  the  Temple  and  the 
Houses  of  Parliament,  to  the  black-walled  palace  of  eccle- 
siastical government — to  the  splendid,  glorious  home  in 
which  a  room  stood  waiting  for  him. 

After  an  hour  or  so,  when  he  was  going  out,  he  found  a 
little  friend  crying  on  the  doorsteps  and  he  stopped  to  com- 
fort her.  She  had  slipped  on  the  pavement  and  grazed  her 
knees.  Her  mother,  the  wife  of  a  dock  porter,  who  presently 
appeared  and  saw  him  kiss  and  soothe  the  child,  praised  him 
and  thanked  him  for  his  kindness. 

"You  make  'em  so  many  favourites,  sir.  .  .  .  Nellie, 
where's  your  present  what  you  was  going  to  give  Mr. 
Churchill  ?"  And  the  woman  laughed,  telling  Churchill  how 
the  little  girl  had  picked  up  an  empty  match-box  two  or  three 
days  ago,  and  had  declared  that  she  would  present  it  to  the 
kind  gentleman  upstairs.  "And  so  she  would  have  done  it, 
sir,  but  her  brother  Tom  went  and  took  it  from  her  and  lost 
it" 

There  was  no  mental  calm  for  him  throughout  that  Sun- 
day. He  could  not  think  any  more  quietly  inside  the  church 
than  outside  it.  The  services  seemed  innumerable  and  inter- 
minable. 

When  the  last  of  them  was  over  he  took  a  long  walk,  and 
all  the  time  he  thought  of  the  misery  here  and  the  comfort 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  155 

at  the  other  end  of  the  town.  He  thought  of  the  palace  that 
was  waiting  for  him — its  grand  library  where  all  such  sad 
facts  as  he  now  looked  at  are  neatly  pigeon-holed,  set  forth 
in  statistical  papers,  shown  in  shaded  maps,  or  lengthily 
recited  in  blue  books.  For  him,  too,  after  a  few  years,  they 
would  be  merely  written  or  printed  notes :  the  life  and  reality 
would  begin  to  go  out  of  them  so  soon  as  he  occupied  his 
mind  with  other  and  fairer  things. 

Working  his  way  home  again,  he  purposely  came  over  the 
canal  bridge,  so  as  to  enter  the  parish  on  its  very  worst  side. 
The  last  glow  of  the  sunset  was  fading  out  of  the  sky,  and 
all  those  bad  streets  were  already  dark  and  mysterious — a 
place  to  make  strangers  tremble.  But  to  him  they  were  not 
even  ugly  to-night.  Familiarity,  here  as  in  the  church,  had 
obliterated  the  ugliness.  There  was  not  a  court  or  alley 
that  he  had  not  visited  many  times;  blindfolded,  he  could 
have  found  his  way  through  the  labyrinth ;  on  all  sides  he  had 
succeeded  in  making  acquaintances  who  welcomed  him  as  he 
passed  by.  They  called  to  him  now  from  the  dark  entries. 
"Good-night,  sir.  .  .  .  Nice  day  it's  bin,  sir.  .  .  .Good- 
night." 

As  he  drew  nearer  home,  he  met  people  that  he  knew  really 
well,  and  walked  with  them.  He  said  to  each,  "I'm  afraid 
I  am  going  away." 

"Yes,  I  hear  talk  of  it.    But  you'll  be  coming  back,  sir." 

"No,  I— I  fear  not" 

And  they  were  all  sorry. 

He  stood  at  a  corner  talking  for  five  minutes  to  Mr.  Phil- 
brick,  the  old  fellow  who  had  preferred  death  to  the  work- 
house. Churchill  and  Mr.  Philbrick  had  grown  to  be  very 
close  friends. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Philbrick,  "what's  got  to  be  has  got  to 
be.  But  when  a  party  first  mentioned  it  to  me,  1  said,  'Don't 
you  go  telling  lies  about  Mr.  Churchill.'  That  was  because 
I  didn't  believe  it,  d'ye  see,  sir;  but  now  you've  had  the 
kindness  to  explain  it  me,  well,  I  say  'Quite  right';"  and 
he  pointed  his  pipe  and  nodded.  "Yes,  you  have  to  think  of 
yourself,  same  as  everybody  else — and  where's  the  use  of 
arguing?  It  was  just  foolish  to  suppose  you'd  stop  here  for 
ever.  And  I  say,  good  luck,  sir—and  may  you  always  have 
your  heart's  desire." 


156 

After  that  Edward  Churchill  walked  on  alone  with  his 
thoughts;  and  suddenly,  just  as  he  turned  the  last  corner 
and  saw  the  lamplit  windows  of  the  vicarage,  he  said  to  him- 
self: "I  cannot  do  it.  These  people  are  fond  of  me;  they 
seem  to  believe  I  help  them — and  I  cannot  leave  them.  It 
would  be  like  a  betrayal.  I  will  not  do  it." 

Instantaneously  all  the  conflict  of  thought  was  at  an  end. 
The  letter  to  the  Archbishop  that  had  seemed  so  difficult  to 
write  could  be  written  quite  easily.  He  would  not  address 
the  secretary;  he  would  write  direct  to  his  Grace,  marking 
the  letter  private,  and  sealing  it ;  and  its  grateful  words  need 
only  be  to  this  effect :  "You  gave  me  all  when  you  gave  me 
your  blessing.  I  asked  for  nothing  else;  I  want  nothing 
else." 

Entering  the  dining-room  at  the  vicarage,  he  apologised 
for  his  lateness  and  found  that  the  meal  was  just  over. 
Nevertheless,  they  stayed  with  him  a  little  while  to  keep  him 
company.  He  would  at  once  have  told  them  of  his  decision, 
but  Walsden  was  too  preoccupied  to  listen  attentively  to 
anything,  and  Mrs.  Walsden  wished  to  tell  him  how  in  the 
most  inexplicable  manner  she  had  allowed  some  oil  to  get 
upon  her  fingers  and  thence  into  her  mouth.  It  had  made 
her  feel  quite  sick.  Mr.  Nape,  corroborating  with  a  titter, 
said  that  for  a  minute  she  had  looked  as  though  she  really 
was  going  to  be  sick.  Gardiner,  however,  had  cleverly  sug- 
gested that  she  should  drink  a  little  vinegar,  and  she  soon 
felt  better.  Still  the  whole  incident  had  been  very  upsetting 
— and  so  inexplicable. 

And  Churchill,  listening  to  this  commonplace  conversa- 
tion and  smiling  at  their  simple  friendly  faces,  felt  alto- 
gether happy.  That  restlessness  was  utterly  gone.  Every- 
thing seemed  bright  and  cheerful.  He  looked  round  the  poor 
room,  at  the  distempered  walls,  and  the  bad  engravings  in 
meretricious  frames,  the  crinkly  paper  and  wax  flowers  on 
the  chiffonier ;  and  he  thought  of  a  room  like  Father  Bryan's, 
with  panelling,  with  cut  glass,  with  tulips  in  silver  pots,  such 
a  room  as  he  had  hoped  to  have  for  his  own.  Thinking  of 
it  he  could  see  it,  vivid  and  solid,  absolutely  real.  But  it 
was  here  that  he  wanted  to  be,  not  there. 

He  ate  a  little  bread  and  cheese,  drank  some  water,  and 
then,  when  the  others  had  left  him,  he  lit  his  pipe  and 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  157 

smoked.  Every  minute  he  became  more  comfortable,  more 
delightfully  at  peace,  more  sure  that  his  decision  was  right 
and  proper.  One  must  do  the  thing  nearest  to  one's  hand. 
He  was  useful  here,  and  he  had  no  certainty  that  he  could 
ever  be  so  useful  elsewhere.  The  Archbishop  could  find  a 
hundred  men  to  take  his  place  and  occupy  it  admirably,  but 
perhaps  St.  Bede's  might  never  find  a  man  capable  of  filling 
the  little  gap  that  he  would  leave  behind  him  if  he  went  now. 
Later  on,  it  might  be  all  different.  In  a  few  years  he 
might  be  able  to  go  with  an  easy  conscience.  And  it  might 
be  not  too  late,  even  then,  to  pick  up  the  broken  progress  of 
his  career. 

But  if  staying  now  meant  the  final  abandonment  of  all 
his  ambitious  dreams — well,  nevertheless,  he  must  stay.  He 
said  to  himself,  "If  need  be,  good-bye  Ambition;"  and  again 
he  felt  stronger  and  calmer.  He  thought  of  his  philosophy, 
those  broad  principles  that,  for  him,  seemed  firmly  estab- 
lished. After  all,  the  real  ambition  should  be  to  still  one's 
restlessness  of  thought;  internal  peace  must  be  the  aim  of 
all  who  are  wise ;  there  cannot  be  any  other  goal  that  is 
worth  reaching.  To  gain  mental  quiet — that,  philosophically, 
is  a  man's  lifework. 

And  he  thought  of  the  lamp  that  was  his  soul  and  the 
mirror  that  was  his  mind,  and  knew  with  absolute  certainty 
of  instinct  that  what  he  meant  to  do  should  make  him  peace- 
fully happy,  and  that  what  he  was  giving  up  would  but  have 
made  him  fretfully  miserable.  "I  knew  it  all  the  time,"  he 
thought.  "I  only  seemed  to  deliberate;  I  was  not  truly  de- 
liberating. Whenever  I  turned  my  eyes  inward,  I  could  see 
my  guard.  Now  and  always,  O  God  give  me  strength  to  live 
by  the  Mirror  and  the  Lamp." 


XX 

WALSDEN  answered  almost  rudely  when  Edward  Churchill 
told  him  that  he  had  refused  the  appointment. 

"Refused  it?  Why  in  the  name  of  reason  have  you  done 
that?" 

"I  preferred  to  stay  here.  On  reflection  I  felt  that  I  could 
not  bring  myself  to  leave  you." 

"Oh,  now — that  sounds  to  me  far-fetched,"  said  Walsden, 
staring,  and  speaking  abruptly.  "Almost  absurd.  Yes,  I 
thing  you're  wrong.  I  advise  you  to  change  your  mind." 

"My  mind  is  quite  made  up." 

Walsden  brought  out  his  bandana  handkerchief,  blew  his 
nose  violently,  and  moved  away. 

"I  think,"  he  said  over  his  shoulder,  "it's  a  pity.  But 
there — I  can't  stop  talking  about  it;"  and  with  a  queer 
flourish  of  the  handkerchief,  as  though  it  had  been  a  signal 
flag  he  hurried  off. 

Next  day  little  Mrs.  Walsden  got  hold  of  Churchill  alone 
for  a  minute,  and  said  that  she  desired  to  apologise  for  un- 
kind thoughts  that  she  had  for  a  little  while  entertained,  and 
to  explain  that  any  oddness  in  her  husband's  manner  was 
certainly  not  caused  by  displeasure. 

"Mr.  Churchill,  I  want  to  thank  you  for  staying — and  I 
want  you  to  forgive  me  for  once  wishing  you  would  go. 
I  misjudged  you.  I  thought  you  were  too  grand — inclined 
to  take  too  much  on  yourself.  Please  forgive  me.  I  did 
doubt  your  loyalty  to  Henry — but  now,  oh,  now,  I  am  so 
ashamed  of  myself." 

Then,  after  clasping  Churchill's  hand,  she  began  to  cry. 
"You  don't  know  what  this  means  to  my  husband.  He  never 
complains,  but  he  has  always  felt  it — the  way  he  is  treated 
by  the  upper  clergy.  As  if  he  wasn't  good  enough  for  them ! 
But  he's  good  enough  for  you.  When  it  came  to  choosing 
them  or  him,  you  chose  him.  Mr.  Churchill,  he  wept  last 
night — a  thing  I've  never  seen  him  do  since  our  children 
died." 

158 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  159 

Edward  Churchill  had  written  to  his  mother,  and  he 
anxiously  awaited  her  reply.  He  had  said :  "A  great  chance 
came,  and  I  refused  it.  I  don't  know  what  you  will  think  of 
me  for  not  consulting  you;  but  it  was  something  I  had  to 
decide  for  myself."  Then,  giving  a  simple  explanation  of 
the  ideas  that  governed  him,  he  begged  her  to  let  him  know 
without  delay  that  she  approved. 

Mrs.  Churchill  allowed  some  little  time  to  elapse  before 
writing,  and  when  her  letter  arrived  it  did  not  altogether 
satisfy  him.  It  was  not  quite  the  letter  that  he  had  expected. 

She  confessed  that  she  could  not  understand  all  his  mo- 
tives ;  but  she  allowed  him  what  she  thought  ought  to  be  al- 
lowed to  everybody — entire  liberty  of  action.  "I  do  not 
therefore  question  your  decision.  Life  is  difficult  for  all  of 
us,  and  each  must  meet  its  difficulties  in  his  own  way." 
Then  she  spoke  of  her  loneliness,  the  loss  of  old  friends,  the 
changes  that  were  taking  place  at  St.  Dunstan's;  and  she 
wound  up  with  a  gloomy  little  sketch  of  the  present  circum- 
stances of  that  Mr.  Barrett,  the  auctioneer.  As  Edward 
knew,  since  she  had  already  told  him  so  several  times,  Mr. 
Barrett,  after  losing  his  sick  wife  about  a  year  ago,  was  left 
absolutely  alone  in  the  world.  His  devotion  to  the  poor  in- 
valid had  been  unparalleled ;  for  an  immense  time  she  had 
ceased  to  be  in  any  sense  a  companion  to  him ;  and  now  that 
death  had  come  to  her  as  a  happy  release,  one  might  have 
hoped  that  he  could  enjoy  comfort  and  peace.  But  no,  fate 
had  ordained  otherwise.  His  business  had  almost  collapsed, 
some  building  speculations  had  gone  wrong,  and  he  saw 
himself  compelled  to  sell  his  commodious  though  not  very 
pretty  house,  together  with  the  solid  but  rather  ugly  furni- 
ture. He  was  living  in  lodgings  all  alone.  This  and  many 
other  things  made  Mrs.  Churchill  very  sad  when  she  thought 
of  them. 

With  Walsden's  ready  consent,  Edward  went  down  to 
St.  Dunstan's  and  spent  one  night  there.  His  mother  seemed 
delighted  to  see  him,  but  she  showed  nervousness,  or  agita- 
tion; she  was  somehow  different  in  voice,  manner,  appear- 
ance. For  the  first  time  he  found  an  impalpable  barrier  be- 
tween them,  and  all  his  efforts  could  not  break  through  it 
sufficiently  to  re-establish  the  old  free  intercourse  of  heart 
with  heart. 


160 

He  thought  that  she  secretly  disapproved  of  his  remaining 
at  St.  Bede's,  but  when  he  spoke  of  this  she  said  that  it  did 
not  matter. 

"But,  mother  dearest,  you  feel  perhaps  that  it  was  not 
quite  fair  to  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  dear.  You  had  to  judge  for  yourself — we  all 
must  do  that :  judge  by  our  own  conscience  what  is  right  or 
wrong.  No,  it  could  not  matter  to  me." 

"But  our  dreams,  mother.  All  the  success  and  the 
honour." 

"Yes,  of  course — I  was  forgetting  our  dreams.  But  for 
you — your  part  of  them  may  still  come  true,  mayn't  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  said ;  "at  any  rate,  the  part  I  care  most  about. 
Only,  unhappily,  I  seem  to  be  postponing  that  also." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  our  living  together — under  one  roof  again." 

"Edward!  My  own  dear  boy."  She  flung  her  arms 
around  him,  kissed  him,  and  sobbed  hysterically. 

"Edward  dear,"  she  went  on  presently,  when  she  had  dried 
her  eyes.  "Isn't  that  just  the  part  of  the  dream  that  was 
most  fatally  impossible  from  the  very  beginning?" 

"No — a  thousand  times  no." 

"Yes,  dear.  Perhaps  I  wasn't  prepared — I  didn't  quite 
guess — how  lofty  your  ideals  of  priesthood  were  going  to  be, 
how  completely  you  would  give  yourself  to  the  Church. 
Don't  you  feel  it  yourself — that  there  is  no  room  in  your  life 
for  other  interests — certainly  no  room  in  it  for  a  silly  old 
mother." 

But  he  protested  passionately  that  his  love  for  her  was, 
as  ever,  the  very  main-spring  of  his  existence.  It  did  not 
clash,  it  never  could  clash,  with  that  other  love.  It  would 
not  interfere  with,  it  would  aid  him,  strengthen  him,  ennoble 
him  in  his  priestly  duties.  And  eagerly  he  begged  her  to 
make  the  great  sacrifice  and  come  now  and  join  him  in  the 
good  work. 

It  was,  of  course,  impossible  that  she  should  live  in  St. 
Bede's  itself ;  but  he  would  find  some  comparatively  pleas- 
ant house  at  Canning  Town,  or  somewhere,  from  which  he 
could  go  to  his  work  every  morning  and  to  which  he  would 
return  every  night.  Home!  The  place  made  lovely  by  love. 
And  she  herself  should  work  in  St.  Bede's;  all  those  poor 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  161 

souls  would  adore  her ;  and  they  two,  united,  would  be  infi- 
nitely happy. 

"Mother  dear,  it  is  only  what  we  planned  first  of  all — 
before  the  money  came  to  give  me  vainglorious  dreams. 
Don't  you  remember?  We  were  to  end  our  days  in  some 
obscure  neighborhood  among  the  very  poor." 

She  listened  to  him  silently,  her  hands  clasped  on  her  lap, 
her  eyes  downcast.  Then  of  a  sudden  she  got  up,  walked 
about  the  room,  and  spoke  without  looking  at  him. 

"Edward,  I  don't  know.  I  want  to  do  what  is  right — but 
it  is  all  so  difficult.  If  you  really  want  to  make  yourself  a 
home,  why,  why  don't  you  marry,  and " 

"Mother!" 

"You — you've  not  taken  any  vows  against  marriage?" 

"No.  Not  yet;  but  I  think  what  I  always  thought.  A 
priest  should  remain  unmarried.  It  is  you  I  am  longing  for. 
Mother,  come  to  me." 

Then  she  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulder,  stooped  to  kiss  his 
forehead,  and  spoke  with  extraordinary  eagerness.  "Yes, 
I'll  come.  I'll  be  true  to  the  old  promise.  Arrange  it  at 
once.  The  sooner  I  get  away  from  here  the  better;"  and 
again  she  began  to  cry,  telling  him  once  more  how  lonely  and 
empty  her  life  had  been  in  these  last  years.  Yet  when  he 
reproached  himself  for  neglecting  her,  she  protested  that  it 
was  all  her  fault,  not  his.  "I'm  weak,  dear — foolish.  But 
if  you  take  me  away,  I  shall  be  wise  and  good.  Oh,  how 
could  I  count  anything  against  my  boy's  faithful  love  ?" 

She  was  more  like  her  old  dear  self  now ;  and  yet  the  bar- 
rier was  still  there — something  inexplicable  that  made 
her  different.  He  noticed  that  she  seemed  to  have  difficulty 
in  concentrating  her  mind ;  after  the  tears,  she  laughed,  and 
in  the  midst  of  laughter  she  became  grave  and  sad;  while 
talking,  she  went  with  unexpected  rapidity  from  subject  to 
subject,  and  just  when  they  were  considering  their  most 
intimate  affairs  she  would  obtrude  some  alien  trivial  topic. 

Thus  she  passed  instantaneously  from  her  own  loneliness 
to  the  loneliness  of  Mr.  Barrett,  the  auctioneer,  and  Edward 
had  to  listen  to  a  recital  of  the  virtues  and  amiabilities  of 
this  vulgar,  Low  Church  person — the  common  intrusive 
friend  that  he  had  so  much  disliked  in  his  youth. 

From  Mr.  Barrett  she  passed  to  their  old  servant  Maria, 


162  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

now  a  pensioner,  living  comfortably  at  Hythe ;  and  then  next 
moment  she  was  back  to  Mr.  Barrett  again. 

"Before  Maria  left  me,  she  had  learnt  to  recognise  what 
a  good  kind  friend  he  was,  and  how  disinterested  he  had 
always  been  in  his  advice." 

Then  she  spoke  of  her  other  sons.  Tom  was  on  his  way 
home  to  England.  The  health  of  Charles  had  broken  down ; 
he  was  in  the  south  of  France,  and  thought  of  going  to  Cali- 
fornia. He  had  got  rid  of  that  dreadful  woman ;  but,  as  his 
mother  feared,  he  was  entangled  with  some  one  else  almost 
as  bad.  She  feared,  too,  that  he  had  squandered  nearly  all 
his  money. 

"Don't  you  correspond  with  him  or  Tom  ?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  said  Edward.  "I  ought  to ;  but  they  never  write  to 
me.  Still  I  ought  to  have  kept  in  touch  with  them  some- 
how. It  is  want  of  time — and,  to  say  the  truth,  want  of 
thought  also.  Mother— one  must  confess  the  truth — they 
seem  so  completely  strangers  that,  except  here,  where  every- 
thing reminds  me,  I  scarcely  ever  remember  their  existence." 

"I  understand,  dear.  It  could  not  be  otherwise.  You  and 
they  are  of  different  clay."  And  once  more,  for  the  third 
time  in  half  an  hour,  she  returned  to  the  subject  of  Mr. 
Barrett.  "They  were  always  so  contemptuous  about  him — 
poor  man,  and  unjust  too.  Charles  never  showed  the  slight- 
est gratitude  for  all  he  did  about  that  electric  firm.  .  .  . 
Edward,  will  you  go  and  see  him  to-morrow  ?  Just  look  in 
on  your  way  to  the  station,  and  say  a  kind  word  or  two  for 
auld  lang  syne.  I  told  him  that  you  were  coming  down — and 
he  would  be  so  glad  to  see  you." 

Of  all  people  iii  St.  Dunstan's,  certainly  Mr.  Barrett  was 
the  last  that  Edward  would  have  thought  of  looking  up.  If 
not  pressed  for  time,  he  would  have  liked  to  go  round  the 
school,  find  if  any  of  the  old  masters  were  still  there,  go  into 
the  gymnasium  and  talk  to  the  illustrious  sergeant;  with 
further  leisure  he  could  have  passed  happy  hours  in  the 
cathedral,  strolled  upon  the  walls  and  taken  long  walks  into 
the  country ;  but,  even  with  a  week  or  more  at  his  disposal, 
he  would  not  of  his  own  accord  have  wasted  five  minutes  on 
Mr.  Barrett.  Nevertheless,  he  dutifully  promised  to  do 
what  his  mother  wished.  This  poor  widower  and  his  dis- 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  163 

tressed  condition  appeared  to  occupy  a  large  place  in  her 
always  tender  thought  for  other  people. 

The  auctioneer's  offices  in  Halberd  Street  had  a  woebegone 
deserted  air,  as  if  the  whole  business  world  were  turning  its 
broad  back  on  them ;  but  Mr.  Barrett  did  not  seem  to  be  at 
all  cast  down.  Although  dressed  in  solemn  black,  he  had  a 
flower  at  his  button-hole;  his  tie-pin  displayed  a  good-sized 
pearl;  his  sandy  hair  was  carefully  brushed  and  plastered 
with  an  odorous  cosmetic  above  his  bald  forehead.  Alto- 
gether he  looked  prosperous,  debonair,  generally  smarter, 
younger  and  less  flabby  than  he  used  to  be  years  ago.  In 
other  respects  he  was  just  the  same  Mr.  Barrett. 

He  welcomed  his  visitor  effusively. 

"Come,  now,  this  is  very  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Ted.  Forgive 
the  liberty.  But  it's  still  Ted  with  your  dear  ma,  and  that's 
how  I  always  think  of  you."  Then  he  shook  hands  again. 
"Yes,  I  do  take  it  as  very  kind — under  the  circumstances — 
you  dropping  in  like  this,  and  showing  me  such  a  proof  of 
regard."  And  he  nodded  his  head  and  smiled  at  Edward 
sentimentally.  "Coming  at  this  conjuncture  it  is — well,  it 
really  is  more  than  kind." 

Edward  Churchill  sat  talking  for  a  little  while,  trying  to  be 
sympathetic,  but  only  achieving  bare  civility,  and  every 
minute  feeling  his  old  childish  dislike  revive  itself  more 
completely. 

He  was  made  inwardly  to  boil  by  a  few  words  about 
religion,  and  a  tactless  reference  to  modern  ritualism. 

"You  know  my  ways,  Mr.  Ted.  I  don't  like  it  and  I  never 
have.  I  joined  in  the  public  protest  to  the  Dean  when  they 
began  screwing  the  cathedral  services  up  to  concert  pitch. 
Not  that  I  trouble  the  cathedral.  No,  Holy  Trinity  is  good 
enough  for  me.  That  is  where  I  always  worshipped  Him 
who " 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  said  Edward,  endeavouring  to  cut 
him  short. 

"I  find  at  Holy  Trinity  what  suits  me.  If  other  people 
don't  care  for  our  ways  they  are  free  to  stay  away." 

"Yes,  exactly." 

"But  stop  a  bit.    I  must  take  care  what  I'm  saying,  or  I 


164  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

shall  tread  on  your  corns,  Mr.  Ted.  Yes ;"  and,  nodding  his 
head  and  smiling,  he  went  on  in  a  tone  of  tolerance,  or  even 
magnanimity :  "Yes,  a  little  bird  has  whispered  to  me  that 
you  are  right  up  there,"  and  he  made  a  gesture  with  his  fat 
hand.  "High  is  not  the  word — or  so  it  has  been  hinted. 
Well,  if  those  are  your  conscientious  views,  it  is  not  for  me  to 
blame  you.  I  follow  your  dear  mamma's  suit.  I  say  Liberty 
of  Conscience  for  all  of  us.  That's  a  favourite  expression  of 
Mrs.  C.'s.  In  our  little  chats  it  always  crops  up." 

"My  mother  and  I  think  alike,  Mr.  Barrett."  Edward  had 
not  intended  to  say  this.  It  was  not  worth  while;  but  the 
words  said  themselves  automatically. 

"Well,  in  most  things,  I  do  believe  you're  right  there,  Mr. 
Ted.  Yes,  you  were  always  the  apple.  I  used  to  venture 
to  name  you  so.  It  was,  'Well,  my  dear  Mrs.  Churchill,  how 
is  the  Apple?'  And  we  used  to  laugh.  Yes — the  Apple. 
Ha-ha !  How  it  all  takes  one  back.  You  know  the  expres- 
sion? I  meant  you  were  the  apple  of  her  eye — and  so  you 
were." 

Edward  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  apologised  for  looking 
at  his  watch.  He  must  catch  the  10:40  train. 

"Then  I  won't  detain  you.  But  a  little  secret ;"  and  Mr. 
Barrett  beamed  expansively.  "You  were  not  only  Mamma's 
favourite,  you  were  everybody  else's  too.  I've  said  it  myself 
hundreds  of  times.  Of  you  three  boys,  you  were  the  one  for 
my  money — the  flower  of  the  flock." 

In  the  act  of  going,  Edward  forced  himself  to  speak  with 
actual  and  unaffected  sympathy  of  Barrett's  long  period 
of  anxious  solicitude  and  his  recent  crushing  sorrow. 

"I  couldn't  have  gone  through  it,"  said  Mr.  Barrett  fer- 
vently, "if  it  hadn't  been  for  Mrs.  C.  Oh,  what  a  saint  she 
was,  year  in,  year  out,  to  pore  Mrs.  Barrett.  As  to  myself, 
in  that  endless  trial — well,  you  probably  know,  and  could 
put  it  many  times  better  than  I  can  myself — she  was  my 
unfailing  support.  More  than  mere  comfort — sunshine, 
hope,  everything." 

Edward  unconsciously  and  instinctively  drew  himself  up, 
and  turned  a  grave,  cold  face  to  Mr.  Barrett.  This  outburst 
of  praise  was  extravagant,  unnecessary,  and  vaguely  but 
strongly  distasteful ;  and  an  association  of  ideas  evoked  dim 
pictures  from  the  past.  He  and  his  brothers  did  not  mind 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  165 

Mr.  Barrett  standing  hat  in  hand  on  the  pavement  and  treat- 
ing Mrs.  Churchill  as  a  queen ;  but  they  never  liked  it  when 
he  came  of  an  evening  to  talk  of  stocks  or  shares,  and  assume 
an  air  of  equality  and  intimacy  that  neither  existed  nor  could 
be  suffered  to  exist. 

"My  mother's  heart  is  always  open  to  those  in  trouble, 
Mr.  Barrett.  She  and  I  well  knew  your  devotion  to  your 
wife,  and  we  both  regret  your  loss." 

Then,  on  the  outer  doorstep,  Edward  mentioned  that  his 
mother  would  very  soon  be  leaving  St.  Dunstan's,  and  they 
would  be  glad  if  Mr.  Barrett  would  attend  to  any  business 
matter  relating  to  their  empty  house. 

"What's  that?"  said  Mr.  Barrett  blankly.  "Leaving? 
When?  Where  for?" 

"My  mother  is  coming  to  live  with  me  in  London." 

"With  you — in  London?"  echoed  Mr.  Barrett  slowly, 
and  almost  incredulously.  "Well,  this  is  news — with  a 
vengeance.  All  very  sudden — this  idea — isn't  it  ?" 

"It  is  an  old  plan ;  but  we  finally  settled  it  only  yesterday. 
Good-bye,  Mr.  Barrett." 


XXI 

"WHY  go  outside  the  parish?"  said  Walsden,  when 
Edward  Churchill  was  speaking  of  the  home  he  wanted  to 
make  for  his  mother.  "Why  don't  you  take  your  favourite 
Denmark  House?  It  seems  just  a  lucky  chance  that  it 
should  have  come  into  the  market." 

Churchill  could  scarcely  believe  his  ears.  The  thing 
sounded  too  good  to  be  true. 

"Yes,"  said  Walsden,  "Mr.  Oliver — you  know,  the  man- 
ager at  Brown's — told  me  all  about  it  yesterday.  He  owns 
the  freehold.  Poor  fellow,  he  put  all  his  savings  into  it,  and 
now  that  Brown's  have  come  to  grief " 

"Brown's — the  soap  factory  ?    Are  they  in  trouble  ?" 

"They're  shut  up.  Didn't  you  hear?  Half  the  girls 
weren't  paid  last  Saturday.  And  Monday  morning  the  gates 
never  opened.  A  lot  of  the  girls  came  round  here.  Then 
they — and  some  men — went  back  and  broke  as  much  glass 
as  they  could.  Poor  souls — that  didn't  get  them  their  money. 
But  I  believe  Mr.  Oliver  has  paid  them  out  of  his  own 
pocket.  He  is  a  good  man — I  have  always  said  it — although 
a  Wesley  an.  I  should  see  him  at  once,  if  I  were  you — 
because  a  house  like  that  won't  go  a-begging.  It  may  be 
snapped  up  any  minute." 

Edward  hurried  along  Bevis  Street  and  round  the  corner 
past  the  silent  factory,  feeling  dread  lest  already  he  might 
be  too  late.  But  to-day  all  things  seemed  to  smile  at  him. 
Denmark  House  had  not  yet  been  snapped  up;  and  in  a 
few  minutes  he  was  walking  about  it,  being  escorted  as  a 
possible  purchaser  by  the  owner  and  the  owner's  wife. 

It  surpassed  one's  most  excited  anticipations,  it  was  a 
rare  gem,  a  perfect  oasis  in  the  desert.  The  staircase  had 
shallow  steps  and  a  broad  hand-rail ;  the  hall  was  paved  with 
black  and  white  stone ;  and  nearly  all  the  rooms  had  panelled 
walls.  Those  on  the  first  floor  were  quite  lofty,  and  in  the 
biggest  room  there  were  low  window  seats  from  which  one 
looked  straight  into  the  heart  of  the  plane  tree. 

166 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  167 

The  fireplaces  were  modern  and  detestable;  evidently 
beautiful  old  chimney-pieces  had  been  ruthlessly  torn  away, 
and  the  whole  house  showed  signs  of  long-continued  vandal- 
ism. But  nothing  mattered;  everything  could  be  restored; 
and  Edward  felt  that  if  it  might  be  his,  he  would  be  the 
happiest  house-owner  in  England. 

He  would  not  bargain,  indeed  one  could  not  bargain  with 
a  man  who  had  come  to  trouble.  Mr.  Oliver  did  not  intend 
to  let  the  house  on  lease ;  he  proposed  to  sell  it  at  auction ; 
but  if  he  could  dispose  of  his  property  by  private  treaty  for 
a  sufficient  price,  he  would  cheerfully  do  so.  Then  only  the 
question  of  price  remained  to  be  settled,  and  Mr.  Oliver 
promised  at  once  to  seek  expert  advice  and  report  the 
result. 

Edward  went  away  in  the  highest  spirits.  Surely  this  was 
more  than  a  lucky  chance ;  it  was  a  kindness  of  Providence 
to  gladden  and  cheer  him  on  his  rightly-chosen  path.  He 
looked  back  at  the  house,  and  saw  sunlight  upon  the  iron 
gate  and  the  green  leaves ;  and  in  imagination  saw  it  as  his 
home,  all  gay  with  fresh  paint,  the  cornice  white,  the  well- 
cleaned  window  panes  flashing  like  diamonds — and  a  loved 
figure  at  the  open  door,  waving  her  hand,  following  him  with 
her  eyes.  He  kissed  his  fingers  to  that  dear  one. 

And  wherever  he  went,  all  the  day,  there  seemed  to  be 
sunshine  and  people  smiling  at  him.  He  thought,  "This  is 
the  first  of  many  such  days.  It  is  the  turned  page,  the  new 
chapter  of  my  life — no,  of  our  life,  which  will  be  so  tranquil 
and  so  happy  that  from  it  there  will  come  only  one  regret : 
that  it  may  not  go  on  for  ever." 

The  entire  parish  was  rejoicing  because  he  was  to  stay 
and  not  to  go.  He  had  a  triumphal  progress  through  the 
streets.  Men,  women,  and  children  hung  about  him  and  made 
much  of  him. 

Passing  through  Bevis  Street  late  in  the  afternoon,  he  had 
the  pleasant  surprise  of  suddenly  meeting  that  nice  young 
woman,  Miss  Vickers.  Although  he  had  only  once  spoken  to 
her  before  this,  he  felt  that  she,  too,  was  an  old  friend  and  he 
told  her  how  glad  it  made  him  to  see  her  again. 

"I  was  afraid  you  had  deserted  us  for  good  and  all." 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said.  "But  I  am  living  over  towards 
Barking  now,  so  I  had  to  drop  the  district  nursing  here.  I 


168  THE  MIRROR  AND.  THE  LAMP 

do  what  I  can  over  there,  but  it's  very  little — and  I  come  to 
see  Mrs.  Walsden  from  time  to  time." 

Then  he  took  her  round  the  corner  to  look  at  the  outside 
of  the  house  that  he  hoped  to  buy,  talking  to  her  with  the 
expansive  freedom  that  was  bred  of  his  happiness,  taking  it 
for  granted  to-day  that  she  and  everybody  else  must  be  in- 
terested in  his  private  affairs,  telling  her  all  about  his  mother 
and  the  perfect  life  that  they  were  to  lead  together. 

She  responded  amiably  and  sympathetically,  delighting 
him  with  her  praise  of  Denmark  House  and  her  rapid  com- 
prehension of  his  filial  joy.  Then  as  they  came  back  to 
the  streets  she  said  a  word  or  two  about  herself,  as  though 
purposely  offering  confidence  in  exchange  for  confidence. 

She  told  him  that  she  did  not  like  the  church  at  Barking. 
She  missed  St.  Bede's. 

"But  I'm  busier  now  than  I  used  to  be,  and  I  have  very 
little  time  for  church  or  anything  else.  I  teach  music,  you 
know." 

He  did  not  know.  Really  he  knew  nothing  about  her; 
but  instinctively  he  seemed  to  have  divined  so  much,  and  the 
thought  of  her  as  a  hard-worked  music  teacher  exactly 
matched  his  preconceived  ideas.  Of  course  she  was  not  a 
West-ender  or  a  doctor's  daughter — that  had  been  a  foolish, 
ill-considered  notion,  entertained  only  for  a  little  while 
because  she  dressed  with  taste  and  spoke  charmingly.  She 
was  alone  in  the  world,  self -maintaining,  self-respecting;  a 
pure  good  girl,  who  did  not  fear  poverty  and  was  not  too 
proud  to  work. 

They  said  good-bye  at  the  corner  of  Bevis  Street,  and, 
looking  at  him  shyly,  she  said,  "Mr.  Churchill,  I  have  heard 
you  preach.  I  heard  you  at  Plaistow,  and  at  Walthamstow." 
Then  she  flushed  faintly,  stopped  speaking,  and  held  out  her 
hand.  But  he  understood  quite  well  that  she  had  intended  to 
tell  him  that  she  liked  his  sermons,  and  then  at  the  last 
moment  had  diffidently  refrained. 

"No,  not  good-bye,"  he  said  cordially.  "As  soon  as 
my  mother  arrives,  I  hope  you  will  find  time  to  come  and 
see  us." 

"I  should  like  to  very  much." 

He  watched  her  as  she  walked  away,  seeming  so  graceful 
and  fragile  for  the  rough,  coarse  battle  of  life,  and  yet  so 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  169 

brave  in  her  self-reliant  loneliness ;  and  the  thought  came  to 
his  mind  that,  although  not  in  the  least  like  Mrs.  Verschoyle, 
she  resembled  her  in  being  the  rare  type  of  woman  who 
might  make  a  possible  wife  for  a  priest. 

This  little  meeting  seemed  to  crown  his  happy,  lucky  day. 
He  felt  extraordinarily  glad  that  she  had  not  altogether 
disappeared  from  St.  Bede's ;  and  in  a  pretty,  fantastic  man- 
ner she  again  linked  herself  with  the  tree  at  Denmark 
House — the  thing  that  had  soothed  his  eyes  when  first  he 
saw  it  amidst  the  arid  desert  of  ugliness. 

Three  days  later  he  was  able  to  telegraph  to  his  mother 
that  the  tree  belonged  to  him. 

He  had  acquired  the  freehold  of  Denmark  House  at  a 
price  that  certainly  did  not  wrong  Mr.  Oliver.  Naturally 
this  implied  an  inroad  on  his  capital — the  first  that  he  had  so 
far  made ;  but  one  might  consider  it  as  a  reinvestment,  by  no 
means  an  injudicious  transaction  up  to  a  certain  point. 
Beyond  that  point,  one  might  call  it  a  grant  in  aid  to  a  worthy 
and  unfortunate  Wesleyan  gentleman  who  was  more  in  need 
of  hard  cash  than  Edward  Churchill. 

He  would  not  discuss  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence  when 
his  solicitors  demurred  to  what  they  termed  an  exorbitant 
figure.  It  was  truly  of  no  consequence.  He  and  his  mother, 
joining  their  resources,  would  be  the  Rothschilds  of  St. 
Bede's — flagrantly  too  rich. 

She,  of  course,  would  bring  her  furniture  with  her;  any 
more  furnishing  would  be  a  slight  affair;  the  only  solid 
expense  would  be  thorough  repairing  and  re-decoration.  And 
in  this  and  every  other  regard,  Mrs.  Churchill  gave  him  a 
free  hand.  Whatever  pleased  him  would  please  her.  She  had 
no  suggestions  to  offer ;  she  was  barren  of  decorative  ideas ; 
indeed,  the  only  thing  that  a  little  checked  his  rapture  was 
the  want  of  enthusiasm  that  her  letters  betrayed.  She  wrote 
meekly  and  staidly,  saying  that  henceforth  her  life  was  to  be 
guided  by  her  dear  boy  and  that  she  would  be  tranquilly 
acquiescent.  She  did  not  want  to  come  to  see  the  house  for 
herself ;  she  had  so  much  to  do  at  St.  Dunstan's ;  if  he 
absolutely  required  feminine  advice,  he  could  not  do  better 
than  consult  that  very  kind  and  considerate  Mrs.  Verschoyle. 
She  begged  him  to  convey  her  sincere  thanks  for  Mrs. 
Verschoyle's  most  hospitable  invitations. 


170  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

"Well,  Christian,"  Mrs.  Verschoyle  had  said,  when  he 
burst  in  upon  her  with  his  latest  news,  "how  are  you  and 
Vanity  Fair  getting  on  together?" 

"I  have  done  with  Vanity  Fair,"  he  cried  joyously.  "I 
have  struck  deep  roots  in  what  used  to  be  the  Slough  of 
Despond — and  the  marsh  is  drained,  and  flowers  are  growing 
up,  and  it  is  all  changing  to  a  fairy  garden." 

"And  what  does  that  nonsense  mean  in  plain  English?" 
she  asked,  laughing. 

"It  means  that  I  am  a  permanent  citizen  of  St.  Bede's. 
It  means  that  I  own  a  house  almost  as  delightful  as  this — 
the  one  I  told  you  about — my  lovely  Denmark  House.  Oh, 
do  put  on  your  hat  and  come  and  let  me  show  it  to  you." 

She  went  with  him  at  once,  answering  gaily  and  hopefully 
to  all  he  said  about  the  home  life  that  he  would  henceforth 
enjoy;  but  she  was  very  grave  and  thoughtful  when  he  told 
her  of  Lambeth  and  the  rejected  offer. 

"Don't  try  to  pretend  that  I  have  done  wrong,"  he  urged 
her.  "I  know  I  was  right.  I  couldn't  be  so  happy — if  not." 

Time  passed  now  in  a  whirl  of  pleasant  business.  Every 
minute  that  he  could  take  from  his  parish  duties  he  gave  to 
the  house  and  to  the  workmen  who  were  hard  at  work  in  it. 
Mrs.  Verschoyle  aided  him  and  advised  him  throughout  his 
preparations  for  the  mother  who  could  not  come  even  for  a 
day  to  choose  curtains  and  carpets,  or  to  decide  upon  the 
situation  of  electric  light  brackets. 

The  allotment  of  the  rooms  was  an  easy  task.  On  the 
ground  floor  so  much  space  was  taken  by  the  hall  that  there 
were  only  two  sitting-rooms,  and  these  would  be  their  dining- 
room  and  Edward's  study.  The  first  floor  would  be  entirely 
devoted  to  Mrs.  Churchill — her  bedroom  at  the  front,  with  a 
boudoir  at  the  side  of  it,  and  behind  these  the  big  room  that 
occupied  the  full  width  of  the  house  would  serve  as  her 
drawing-room.  Here  she  would  sit  enthroned,  surrounded 
by  all  her  old  treasures,  and  doubtless  with  many  pretty 
things  that  he  would  add  to  them,  interesting  herself  in 
charitable  schemes,  reading,  writing  letters,  receiving  visi- 
tors, being  steadily,  calmly  happy.  On  the  top  floor  there 
were  five  small  rooms,  of  which  one  would  be  her  son's 
bedroom.  Two  of  the  others  would  be  absorbed  by  the  nice 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  171 

maidservants  that  Mrs.  Churchill  was  to  bring  with  her. 
And  the  other  two  would  stand  waiting  for  his  brothers, 
whenever  their  mother  wished  to  have  them  as  visitors  under 
her  roof.  Beyond  all  this  there  was  a  bath-room,  now  being 
fitted  with  the  newest  and  most  fashionable  bath  in  lieu  of  the 
dilapidated  tank  left  by  the  outgoing  proprietor. 

Edward,  going  from  room  to  room  with  Mrs.  Verschoyle, 
used  to  babble  unceasingly  about  the  beloved  mistress  of  his 
house. 

"She  will  be  as  fond  of  that  tree  as  I  am.  Doesn't  it 
look  sweet  from  this  window?  Oh,  I  wish  she  could  see  it 
before  all  the  leaves  are  off.  .  .  .  You  know,  after  her  solitary 
life  during  the  last  few  years,  I  think  she  would  be  content 
anywhere  with  me.  But  really,  this  house  itself  is  a  grand 
exchange  from  our  old  home.  It  is  only  the  neighbourhood 
that  may  strike  her  as  dull  and  depressing — just  as  it  did  me, 
at  first.  But  then  I  don't  mean  to  keep  her  a  prisoner  here. 
I  shall  arrange  things.  Yes,  I  shall  insist  on  her  going  often 
to  theatres  and  concerts.  I'll  give  her  what  she  has  never 
enjoyed."  And  he  laughed  gaily.  "She  will  be  rather  a 
West-ender  where  pleasures  are  concerned." 

Mrs.  Verschoyle  used  to  laugh  too,  amused  and  yet 
touched  by  all  this  chatter.  "I  have  heard  of  devoted  sons," 
she  said  to  him  once ;  "but  I  never  heard  of  a  son  like  you. 
Do  you  know  that  you  talk  exactly  as  a  man  might  when  he 
was  going  to  be  married  and  waiting  the  arrival  of  his 
bride!" 

"She  and  I  are  all  in  all  to  each  other,"  he  answered 
simply. 

Nevertheless  she  did  not  hurry  to  him.  Slow  as  workmen 
must  ever  be,  they  had  finished  their  work  at  last.  By  the 
end  of  November  the  house  was  ready  to  receive  its  furni- 
ture and  its  mistress.  Braving  the  smell  of  paint,  Edward 
had  moved  into  it  weeks  ago,  and  was  camping  in  the  boudoir 
on  the  first  floor,  his  unopened  packing-cases  all  about  the 
little  iron  bed,  a  sheet  spread  out  on  the  floor  to  guard  the 
freshness  and  bloom  of  the  new  carpet.  He  longed  for  the 
first  instalment  of  the  dear  old  furniture ;  he  felt  feverishly 
anxious  to  see  and  put  up  the  bedstead  he  had  used  as  a 
boy ;  he  burned  to  get  everything  in  its  place ;  he  pined  for 
the  lady  of  his  house. 


172  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

But  she  did  not  come.  She  delayed,  she  made  excuses; 
she  could  not  dispatch  anything  this  week;  she  could  not 
herself  hope  to  get  on  the  move  until  the  week  after.  Then 
she  sent  him  a  brief  note,  begging  him  to  come  down  to 
St.  Dunstan's  at  once,  "and  discuss  the  future." 

Discuss  the  future !  But  the  future  was  all  settled.  What 
could  there  be  to  discuss? 


XXII 

HE  was  sitting  with  her  in  the  room  that  he  used  to  think 
of  as  a  shrine,  where  she  had  first  taught  him  to  pray;  her 
head  was  on  his  breast  so  that  he  looked  down  at  her  grey 
hairs ;  her  whole  body  trembled ;  her  tears  fell  upon  his  hand 
and  burned  it.  He  sat  for  a  little  while  rigid  and  still,  feeling 
like  a  man  who  has  received  his  death  wound,  and  who  dares 
not  move  lest  the  blood  which  is  slowly  and  surely  draining 
away  should  gush  forth  in  a  rapid  stream  of  destruction. 
Then  he  stooped  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

"Mother  dear,  look  up.  Let  us  talk  quietly.  Tell  me 
everything,  so  that  I  may  understand." 

But  truly  it  was  not  understandable.  It  was  abnormal, 
monstrous,  torturingly  impossible.  She  had  just  told  him 
that  she  wanted  to  marry  Mr.  Barrett  the  auctioneer. 

Now,  taking  courage  from  his  gentle  tone,  she  began  to 
explain  the  unexplainable,  to  defend  the  indefensible.  From 
the  very  beginning  Mr.  Barrett  had  intensely  admired  her, 
and,  as  she  phrased  it,  "in  the  most  delicate  way,"  had  al- 
lowed her  to  become  aware  of  the  fact.  And  this  admiration 
had  expanded  and  ripened  into  a  unique  and  beautiful  senti- 
ment on  his  part ;  it  was  a  perpetual  worship  that  she  herself 
had  always  felt,  but  of  course  had  never  spoken  of.  It  had 
been  an  atmosphere  of  respectful  mystery  with  which  he  had 
surrounded  her,  and  to  which  little  by  little  she  had  grown 
accustomed,  breathing  it  year  after  year  with  peaceful  pleas- 
ure. 

"Edward,  my  darling,  don't  judge  me  hardly.  You  can 
scarcely  know  what  this  means  to  a  woman.  Such  devotion 
cannot  be  ignored.  In  itself  it  has  a  power  to  sustain  and 
support  one.  It  made  life  easier  for  me.  It  seemed  to  give 
me  strength — and  it  never,  never  for  a  moment  interfered 
with  my  duty  to  you." 

And  then  she  said,  with  great  eagerness,  that  he  must 
not  suppose  she  had  ever  given  Mr.  Barrett  the  very  slightest 
encouragement,  or  that  a  single  affectionate  word  had  ever 

173 


174  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

passed  between  them  during  the  lifetime  of  Mrs.  Barrett 
No,  it  was  only  after  his  poor  invalid  had  passed  away  that 
he  openly  announced  his  love,  and  began  to  supplicate  for  its 
reward. 

"But  I  refused  him,  Edward — for  your  sake.  I  felt  that 
you  would  not  like  it,  and  I  told  him  that  it  could  not  be." 

Mr.  Barrett,  however,  was  not  a  person  to  take  no  for  an 
answer.  Now  that  his  suit  was  lawful,  he  had  proved  a 
persistent  suitor;  and  everything  pleaded  for  him  and 
appealed  to  her  softer  feelings — his  loneliness,  his  failure  in 
business,  his  patience  and  courage  and  chivalry.  "It  is  not 
given  to  many  women,"  she  said,  "to  arouse  such  a  constant, 
elevated  passion  in  the  heart  of  a  really  good  man."  So  that 
she  had  been  on  the  point  of  yielding  wlien  Edward  came 
down  and  extracted  her  promise  to  join  him  in  London. 

And  Edward  Churchill,  listening,  thought  that  he  must 
be  going  mad.  She  was  speaking  like  a  rather  vain  and 
very  silly  girl,  fluttered  and  excited  by  a  first  love  affair. 
She  talked  of  this  common  fellow,  this  coarse  vulgarian,  as 
though  he  were  one  of  the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table. 
She  had  forgotten  all  her  old  niceness  of  instinct,  her  respect 
for  good  birth  and  breeding,  her  desire  for  the  charms  and 
graces  of  lif e ;  and  merely  because  an  elderly,  sandy,  flabby, 
impudent,  half-bankrupt  tradesman  said  he  was  fond  of  her, 
she  had  become  fond  of  him — so  fond  that  she  was  willing  to 
make  this  preposterous  marriage,  incur  the  ridicule  of  all 
sensible  people,  and  break  her  son's  heart. 

"Ever  since  your  visit,"  she  went  on,  "it  has  been  a  most 
dreadful  struggle  for  me.  I  was  afraid  of  you." 

"Afraid!" 

"I  had  given  my  promise,  and  I  meant  to  keep  it.  I 
told  him  that  arguments  were  no  use.  I  could  not  answer 
his  arguments — they  seemed  too  just.  He  used  to  urge — • 
in  his  chaffing  way — that  at  any  rate  I  had  reached  years  of 
discretion,  that  I  was  a  free  agent,  that  I  had  a  right  to  do 
what  I  thought  best.  And  he  said  no  one  could  accuse  me  of 
not  having  done  my  duty  to  you  all.  I  had  brought  you  up, 
and  one  after  another  you  had  left  me.  He  never  said  any- 
thing disparaging  of  you,  dear — far  from  it.  He  always 
praises  you — he  sincerely  admires  you;  but  he  said  in  this 
you  were  asking  too  much  of  me.  And  he  said — what  I  have 


175 

felt  so  often  myself — that,  supposing  I  went  and  set  up  house 
with  you,  sooner  or  later  you  yourself  would  marry — and 
then  where  should  I  be?  The  sacrifice  would  have  been  in 
vain." 

"The  sacrifice!" 

"I  mean,  I  should  have  deprived  him  of  happiness,  and 
really  lost  it  myself — and  all  to  no  purpose.  Edward,  I  am 
only  repeating  his  arguments.  But  they  did  not  shake  my 
resolve  to  keep  the  promise  to  you.  No,  what  moved  me  was 
the  sight  of  his  misery.  I  saw  plainly  that  I  was  driving  him 
to  despair.  I  thought,  'What  will  my  feelings  be,  if  he  goes 
and  commits  suicide  ?'  Edward,  you  can't  ever  know  what 
I  have  been  through  in  these  last  weeks.  It  has  been  one  long 
dreadful  struggle.  I  wanted  to  do  wrhat  was  right — I  had  to 
choose — I  had  to  decide." 

And  Edward  thought,  with  unspeakable  bitterness  of 
spirit,  "Grotesqueness  is  always  an  attribute  that  heightens 
the  effect  of  tragedy.  If  the  man  were  other  than  he  is,  my 
pain  could  not  be  so  poisonously  stinging.  As  she  says,  she 
had  to  choose.  Her  choice  lay  plain  before  her :  Mr.  Barrett 
and  his  love,  or  me  and  mine.  And  she  has  chosen  Mr. 
Barrett." 

Then  the  thought,  "I  must  not  be  selfish.  I  must  not  think 
of  myself;  I  must  think  only  of  her."  He  had  not  said  a 
single  unkind  word  to  her,  and  he  did  not  fear  that  he  would 
say  one;  but  now  he  kissed  her  again,  laid  his  hand  very 
softly  on  her  grey  hair,  and  tried  to  smile  encouragingly. 

"My  own  boy,  tell  me  that  you  understand — that  you 
release  me  from  my  promise.  I  can't  be  happy  unless  I  feel 
that  you  forgive  me.  Listen,  dear,  I  ought  to  have  told  you 
this  before.  I  wrote  to  Tom  and  Charles — and  I  have  heard 
from  both  of  them.  They  approve — they  don't  mind.  Let 
me  feel  that  you  all  three  do  not  blame — or  reproach  me." 

She  had  written  to  the  other  two — to  the  two  that  scarcely 
loved  her;  but  of  him  whose  whole  life  had  been  spent  in 
loving  her  she  was  afraid. 

"We  want  to  get  away  from  here.  We  think  of  Brighton. 
He  has  always  wished  to  end  his  days  at  Brighton.  We  have 
heard  of  several  houses — in  fact,  he  has  entered  into  treaty 
for  one  of  them — provisionally,  of  course.  He  wants  to  take 
me  down  to  look  at  it." 


176  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

And  Edward  thought,  "Yes,  he  and  I  have  been  rivals  even 
in  that  too.  We  have  each  been  selecting  a  house  for  her; 
but  she  is  going  to  his  house,  not  mine."  Then  once  more 
came  the  thought,  "I  must  not  think  of  myself ;  I  must  think 
only  of  her." 

She  continued  her  story,  pressing  his  hand  affectionately, 
speaking  quite  confidently  and  cheerfully  now;  and  he  felt 
pity  and  shame.  He  felt  as  a  father  who  listens  to  the  lale 
of  a  daughter's  disgrace,  like  a  friend  learning  of  a  friend's 
secret  sins,  like  a  priest  when  a  penitent  confesses  that  he  has 
committed  sacrilege. 

But  every  now  and  then,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts  after 
detachment  from  the  point  of  view  of  self,  there  would  come 
a  stab  of  memory. 

"Yes,  this  is  not  just  any  woman  who  is  disgracing  her- 
self, it  is  my  mother.  This  is  not  merely  another  revelation 
of  foolishness  where  one  hoped  for  wisdom ;  it  is  the  over- 
throw of  all  my  faith  in  womankind.  The  person  who  is 
going  to  do  a  quite  unworthy  thing  in  a  supremely  foolish 
manner,  who  will  forfeit  the  respect  of  friends,  and  be 
laughed  at  by  strangers,  is  she  from  whom  I  drew  life,  and 
then  strength,  and  tnen  hope." 

He  did  not  for  a  moment  attempt  to  dissuade  her  from  her 
project.  His  knowledge  of  human  nature,  although  it  had 
not  been  great  enough  to  prepare  him  for  this  surprise,  was 
at  least  sufficient  to  make  him  sure  that  the  catastrophe 
could  not  be  averted.  She  spoke  of  obtaining  his  consent ; 
but,  even  if  perhaps  she  did  not  admit  it  to  herself,  she  was 
quite  determined.  People  did  these  things  in  the  East  End 
as  well  as  in  quiet  cathedral  cities;  widows  of  over  fifty 
married  second,  third,  or  fourth  husbands.  And,  with  an- 
other lance-like  throb  of  pain,  he  remembered  much  pleasant 
fun  at  the  Verschoyles*  rectory  about  an  elderly  cook  who 
was  unexpectedly  leaving.  Mrs.  Verschoyle  could  not  guess 
why ;  and  the  grey-haired  cook,  puckering  her  apron,  at  last 
coyly  confessed  that  she  was  leaving  to  get  married. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  interrupting  her,  "when  is  it  to  be?" 

"Well,  dear,  we  hope  before  Christmas.  You  know,  poor 
Mrs.  Barrett  died  more  than  a  year  ago." 

Then  she  began  to  thank  him  for  his  gentleness  and  for- 
bearance, saying  that  he  had  proved  true  to  his  nature,  and 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  177 

reminding  him  that  until  these  years  of  their  enforced 
separation  she  had  looked  only  to  him  for  comfort  and  sup- 
port. 

And  finally  she  spoke  about  the  furniture.  That,  she 
said,  was  what  now  preyed  upon  her  mind.  "It  is  as  though 
I  had  cheated  you,  dear.  I  led  you  to  expect  it — and  now  I 
am  leaving  you  with  an  empty  house.  Of  course,  you  have 
been  counting  on  the  furniture." 

He  bowed  his  head,  so  that  she  should  not  see  his  eyes, 
and  there  came  a  sound  from  his  throat  that  was  half  a  cough 
and  half  a  sob.  He  was  stifling  the  words  that  had  nearly 
said  themselves :  "I  was  counting  on  you,  mother,  more  than 
on  your  furniture." 

He  returned  to  London  almost  immediately  after  this 
interview,  and  in  the  train  he  sat  with  folded  arms,  scarcely 
changing  his  attitude  throughout  the  journey.  It  was  dark 
now,  so  that  if  he  had  looked  back  to  catch  that  last  pic- 
turesque glimpse  of  St.  Dunstan's,  he  could  have  seen 
nothing.  But  he  had  no  wish  to  see  it;  he  hoped  that  he 
might  never  see  it  again.  He  thought  dully  of  what  is  said 
about  people  in  his  situation  to  describe  their  state.  Writers, 
using  stereotyped  phrases,  say,  "He  felt  stunned,  confused, 
as  if  he  had  received  a  blow  on  the  head."  Or  they  say, 
"He  felt  paralysed."  Or  they  say,  "He  felt  like  a  man  who 
has  undergone  a  severe  surgical  operation,  and  cannot  shake 
off  the  dreams  of  anaesthesia  or  recover  strength  enough 
even  to  lift  his  head."  And  Edward  Churchill  thought, 
"Yes,  I  feel  all  that.  But  I  feel  more ;"  and  dully  he  sought 
for  another  simile.  "I  feel  like  a  small  child  who  started  in 
the  morning  with  its  parents  and  guardians  and  other  chil- 
dren ;  and  then,  after  playing  with  them  happily  all  day,  at 
dusk  finds  itself  suddenly  alone,  and  thinks,  This  is  the 
awful  thing  that  has  often  been  talked  about.  I  am  lost. 
Yes,  I  am  lost!" 

He  repeated  the  words  aloud — "I  am  lost;"  and  then, 
looking  up,  saw  that  his  fellow-passengers  were  staring  at 
him  questioningly. 

He  walked  from  the  London  terminus,  and  it  was  late 
when  he  reached  St.  Bede's.  Alone  in  his  empty  house  he 
wandered  up  and  down,  turning  on  all  the  lights,  going  in 
and  out  of  the  rooms,  looking  at  the  blankness  and  the 


178  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

emptiness.  Whenever  he  paused,  trivial  little  ironical  words 
suggested  themselves,  and  sometimes  he  uttered  them  with  a 
feebly  explanatory  tone :  such  as,  "This  is  a  disappointment. 
.  .  .  Not  at  all  what  I  counted  on.  ...  Quite  a  shock, 
when  I  first  had  to  face  it." 

Then  would  come  big  words,  like  great  guns  fired  from  a 
distance  and  yet  making  noise  enough  to  silence  all  the 
adjacent  splutter  of  musketry.  Thus  it  seemed  when  he 
thought :  "Two  things  I  have  trusted — God  and  my  mother. 
And  one  of  them  has  failed  me." 


XXIII 

HE  was  alone  with  his  religion  now,  and  subtly  its  char- 
acter began  to  change.  He  lost  his  joy  in  the  splendours  of 
ritual ;  the  significances  of  symbolism  ceased  to  interest  him ; 
even  the  crowning  mystery  of  sacrificial  rites  appeared  to 
him  of  less  paramount  importance.  Only  essentials  mattered. 

It  was  as  if  his  grief,  his  disgust,  his  vicarious  shame,  had 
driven  him  irrevocably  from  the  realm  of  refined  ideas  and 
forced  him  to  take  a  firm  standpoint  on  broad  unshakable 
principles.  He  could  not  think  as  hitherto  of  the  quality  of 
things  that  are  beautiful.  When  he  looked  at  the  bare 
branches  of  the  plane  tree  he  did  not  remember  the  green 
leaves  they  had  borne  such  a  little  while  ago.  He  had  no 
desire  nowadays  to  go  to  the  lovely  Church  of  the  Cruci- 
fixion. Several  times  he  saw  that  graceful  young  woman,  the 
sight  of  whom  used  to  stir  his  mind  with  pretty  fancies,  and 
now  he  hardly  glanced  at  her  pale  face  or  brown  hair,  and 
had  not  the  slightest  wish  ever  to  hear  her  voice  again.  For 
a  long  time  he  could  not  even  bring  himself  to  visit  Mrs. 
Verschoyle,  although  he  knew  well  that  she  would  not  wound 
him  with  a  visible  sign  of  the  sympathy  that  she  had  so  deli- 
cately hidden  in  one  or  two  letters  after  he  told  her  of  his 
altered  plans. 

He  just  stuck  to  his  ordinary  work,  seeking  nothing 
outside  it ;  as  though  all  dreams  were  finished,  and,  awaken- 
ing, he  had  accepted  the  hard  law  of  facts.  Life  is  ugly, 
and  one  must  not  shirk  its  ugliness. 

Rising  one  morning,  he  said  to  himself,  "This  is  my 
mother's  wedding  day ;"  and  he  repeated  the  words  again  and 
again.  He  had  asked  to  be  excused  from  attending  the 
ceremony,  and  his  request  had  been  at  once  granted;  but, 
as  soon  as  the  happy  pair  should  be  well  established  in  their 
Brighton  house,  he  was  to  visit  them.  His  mother  could 
not  let  him  off  this  visit  or  permit  him  to  postpone  it 
indefinitely,  and  he  looked  forward  to  it  with  shrinking  dread 
as  the  consummation  of  his  pain.  All  through  the  wedding 

179 


180  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

day  he  was  haunted  by  pictures  of  the  past  and  the  future. 
How  could  she  bring  herself  to  do  it?  Oh,  how  could  she  so 
forget  her  own  legend?  And  he  thought  that  this  real 
tragedy  was  more  poignantly  distressing  than  the  fable  of 
Shakespeare's  play.  For  to  him  the  distress  was  far  worse 
than  for  Hamlet.  Comparatively,  Hamlet  and  the  Queen  had 
been  nothing  to  each  other. 

He  could  not  sleep,  he  could  not  eat,  the  idea  of  what  was 
happening  continued  to  be  intolerable. 

Nevertheless,  while  the  new  year  was  still  young,  he  duti- 
fully fulfilled  his  engagement,  and  went  down  to  Brighton 
to  stay  for  a  few  days  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barrett. 

Their  house  was  situated  on  the  East  Cliff,  in  one  of  the 
old  terraces  long  since  deserted  by  fashion,  and  Mr.  Barrett, 
exercising  all  his  professional  skill,  had  secured  it  as  an 
astounding  bargain.  It  was  small  and  neat — just  the  right 
size  for  the  St.  Dunstan's  furniture.  Here,  then,  Edward 
saw  what  was  like  the  ghost  of  his  childhood's  home ;  every 
chair  and  table  reminding  him  of  vanished  days,  the  pictures 
on  the  walls  seeming  to  whisper  of  his  dead  father;  and 
in  the  midst  of  it  the  base  intruder  and  supplanter,  spreading 
himself  out  large,  beaming  with  self-satisfaction,  exuding 
vulgar  triumph.  Here,  too,  Edward  for  the  first  time  heard 
the  man  call  his  mother  Edith,  watched  her  after  dinner 
while  she  fetched  a  pair  of  slippers,  a  tobacco  jar,  a  pipe,  and 
suffered  more  acutely  than  he  would  have  believed  possible. 

The  greater  must  include  the  less.  Since  she  had  mai  ried 
the  man,  one  should  have  been  prepared  for  all  the  rest. 
Already  she  was  altogether  different.  Her  manner,  her  voice 
had  changed ;  she  even  did  her  hair  differently.  Of  course, 
outwardly  as  well  as  inwardly,  she  must  be  different:  she 
was  now  the  comrade,  the  obedient  helpmate,  the  other  half 
of  Mr.  Barrett.  Already,  in  a  dull  kind  way,  he  had  com- 
pletely dominated  her.  The  adoring  slave  had  become  the 
tolerant  master.  Without  the  slightest  harshness,  merely 
by  the  dead  weight  of  companionship,  he  dictated  her  acts, 
her  words,  her  thoughts.  He  would  do  so  always — he  would 
simply  obliterate  in  her  all  that  had  made  her  what  she  was. 
And  yet — last  incredible,  prodigiously  illogical  truth — she 
was  quite  contented. 

While  he  talked,  she  listened  appreciatively.     His  con- 


181 

versation — which  for  the  main  part  consisted  of  a  rapid 
sequence  of  platitudinous  nonsense — appeared  to  be  all  that 
she  desired  as  an  intellectual  treat.  When  he  thought  he  had 
made  a  joke,  he  looked  at  her  in  a  certain  winking  familiar 
style,  and  she  immediately  also  thought  that  he  had  made  a 
joke,  and  laughed  with  as  much  pleasure  as  if  he  had  really 
made  one. 

To  Edward — of  an  evening,  after  she  had  gone  to  hed — 
he  was  terrible,  nerve-inflaming,  poisonously  asphyxiating. 
He  sat  rocking  himself  in  the  late  Mr.  Churchill's  swing 
chair,  smoking  and  twaddling. 

He  called  Brighton  "London-by-the-Sea,"  spoke  of  it 
also  as  "Doctor  Brighton,"  and  said  that,  althought  the  fact 
might  prove  him  to  be  an  odd  original  sort  of  creature,  he 
must  confess  that  the  sound  of  the  waves  as  they  gently  beat 
upon  the  shore  was  very  pleasant  to  him.  He  said,  too,  that 
he  firmly  believed  tobacco  to  be  a  blessing  if  used  in  modera- 
tion. It  soothed  the  brain.  But  tobacco,  like  many  other 
things,  might  be  condemned  as  evil  "when  carried  to  excess." 

"Moderation,  Edward.    That  should  be  one's  watchword." 

Then  he  talked  a  little  scandal  about  the  lady  who  lived 
next  door.  She  was  by  herself  during  the  week,  but  a  gentle- 
man appeared  on  Saturday.  This  week-end  personage  might 
be  her  lawful  wedded  husband,  but  on  the  other  hand  he 
might  not. 

"I  have  told  your  mamma  to  be  on  her  guard,  and  not  to 
encourage  advances  from  so  doubtful  a  quarter.  We  shall 
have  no  difficulty  in  building  up  our  little  circle  of  friends, 
and  we  wrould  like  them  to  be  of  the  right  sort." 

And  then  Mr.  Barrett  suggested  "Bedfordshire."  Cum- 
brously  getting  out  of  the  swing  chair  and  stretching  himself, 
he  took  a  last  proud  survey  of  the  comfortable,  nicely  fur- 
nished room,  and  said,  "Now,  isn't  this  better  for  both  of 
us  than  moping  out  our  lives  by  ourselves  ?  You  see  it,  now, 
don't  you,  Ted?  Mamma  and  I,  in  joining  forces,  did  the 
wise  and  proper  thing,  didn't  we  ?" 

Edward  opened  his  bedroom  window  and  filled  his  lungs 
with  the  cold  night  air.  He  was  almost  suffocating.  He 
looked  at  the  stars,  and  thought  of  their  remoteness;  he 
listened  to  the  waves,  and  to  his  ears  their  voices  spoke  only 
of  sadness.  If  any  doubt  or  hope  had  lingered,  he  knew  now. 


182  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

that  his  mother  had  gone  from  him  for  ever.    If  she  had 
died,  the  separation  would  have  seemed  less  cru shingly  final. 

About  a  month  after  the  Brighton  excursion  lie  had  a 
meeting  with  his  two  brothers.  By  arrangement  they  all 
three  dined  together  at  a  restaurant  near  Piccadilly  Circus, 
and,  going  westward  to  this  appointment,  Edward  felt  a 
rapid  revival  of  brotherly  affection  and  an  immense  longing 
to  renew  a  natural  intercourse  that  had  been  too  long 
neglected. 

But  alas,  it  was  impossible.  Some  glow  of  warmth  there 
was,  a  flare  of  instinct,  and  then  numbness,  coldness.  In 
truth  they  seemed  to  him  utter  strangers,  two  worldly  com- 
mon fellows,  gross  of  mind  and  gross  of  tongue.  Tom  was 
big  and  loud,  and  blustering — prosperous  now,  he  declared — 
the  typical  colonial  wanderer,  who  romances  about  past 
hardships  and  brags  about  future  ease.  Charles  was  lean, 
rather  seedy-looking  in  spite  of  raffish  ornaments  of  attire ; 
he  said  Europe  was  played-out,  rotten,  no  longer  the  place 
for  a  white  man;  and  he  intended  shortly  to  go  back  with 
Tom  to  Australia.  Meanwhile,  both  of  them,  evidently, 
were  enjoying  all  the  pleasures  of  the  town.  Tom  spoke 
plainly  of  the  temporary  solace  afforded  by  the  opposite  sex 
to  those  fortunate  enough  to  have  plenty  of  money  in  their 
pockets,  and  then,  laughing,  checked  the  flow  of  such  revela- 
tions. "I  must  respect  the  cloth,  Ted,  old  boy."  And  almost 
in  the  same  breath  he  was  talking  of  their  mother. 

Neither  he  nor  Charles  appeared  to  recollect  that  ancient 
horror  of  the  stepfather,  or  their  contempt  for  Mr.  Barrett. 
The  marriage  had  not  ruffled  them.  They  thought  it  foolish, 
but  they  didn't  care. 

"Women  are  all  the  same,"  said  Tom  sententiously ;  "and 
I  believe  the  older  they  get  the  sillier  they  get." 

Charles  looked  sage :  seeming  to  say  without  words  that 
in  his  varied  experience  of  women  wickedness  rather  than 
silliness  had  been  the  trouble. 

"But  as  to  the  dear  mater,"  said  Tom,  "well,  it  means, 
of  course,  that  nothing  will  ever  come  our  way  now.  Number 
Two  will  see  to  that.  I  don't  mind.  I'm  all  right — on  the 
up-grade,  going  to  wallow  in  it  before  I've  done.  And  I 
say,  'Long  may  she  enjoy  her  own,  and  do  what  she  likes 
with  it  afterwards.'  Let's  drink  her  health." 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  183 

Edward  left  them  drinking  together.  Ever  afterwards, 
when  he  thought  of  them,  he  had  that  farewell  picture — of 
the  two  unfamiliar-looking  men  seated  at  a  disordered  table 
in  the  now  empty  dining-room,  with  flushed  faces  and  stupid 
eyes,  talking  garrulously,  while  a  waiter  yawned,  furtively 
read  a  newspaper,  and  pined  for  them  to  go  away.  The 
strongest  combined  effort  of  memory  and  imagination  could 
not  make  this  picture  blend  with  the  other  one  of  two  clean- 
minded,  frank-eyed,  healthy  boys,  whom  he  had  honoured 
and  loved.  These  two  men  did  not  want  him;  he  could  not 
help  them ;  in  thought  he  bade  them  good-bye. 

Thus  all  ties  of  family  had  been  broken,  not  a  single  per- 
sonal affection  was  left  to  him.  But  the  blank  must  be 
somehow  filled — that  was  a  necessity.  Mankind  in  the  mass 
was  surely  large  enough  to  supply  what  had  been  withdrawn 
by  a  few  individuals. 

Gradually  he  furnished  his  house,  in  a  rough  and  ready 
way,  buying  the  things  for  room  after  room  as  they  were 
wanted.  This  was  home,  and  he  was  now  settling  down  in 
it.  His  housekeeper  was  a  Mrs.  Clough,  the  deserted  wife 
of  a  bricklayer  who  had  gone  to  Canada.  For  years  she  had 
worked  at  an  Aldgate  steam  laundry,  tramping  to  and  fro 
every  day,  and  at  last  getting  knocked  down  by  a  meat  van. 
Edward  Churchill  went  to  see  her  at  the  London  Hospital, 
and  the  kind  doctors  who  had  mended  her  broken  thigh, 
patched  her  perforated  lung,  and  bulged  out  her  crushed  ribs, 
told  him  that  she  could  never  again  be  up  to  the  heavy  work 
of  her  laundry.  If  the  laundry  people  took  her  back  and  let 
her  limp  about  for  a  week,  they  would  infallibly  sack  her  at 
the  end  of  it.  She  was,  however,  quite  up  to  the  light  work 
of  Denmark  House;  her  daughters,  grown-up  factory 
women,  came  to  stay  with  her  when  out  of  a  job;  she  adored 
her  new  master,  and  would  have  been  perfectly  happy  but 
for  the  fear  that  one  day  her  bad  husband  might  come  back 
from  Canada  and  upset  the  apple-cart. 

In  the  large,  bare  drawing-room  some  rough  cupboards 
had  been  fitted,  and  in  these  were  piles  of  the  Prayer-books 
and  Bibles  used  for  classes,  rolled  maps  of  the  Holy  Land 
and  Syria  that  came  out  for  lectures  on  the  Passion  or  Paul's 
voyages,  coloured  flags  of  the  signalling  section  of  the  cadet 
corps,  and  so  on.  Near  the  windows  there  was  a  large  table 


184 

and  desk,  with  a  metal  crucifix  attached  to  the  wall  above  it. 
When  the  boudoir  door  stood  open,  one  had  a  peep  into 
Churchill's  bedroom — a  painted  chest  of  drawers,  the  narrow 
iron  bed,  with  another  crucifix  near  it. 

There  were  no  curtains  in  either  room,  but  in  both  the 
richness  and  splendour  of  the  carpet  struck  an  incongruous 
note.  Those  packing-cases  had  at  last  been  opened,  and  the 
books  that  they  contained  so  long  were  bestowed  on  one  side 
of  the  big  room  in  ranges  of  deal  shelves  as  yet  unpainted. 
For  the  walls  he  had  purchased  some  religious  prints  in  black 
frames.  There  were  many  wooden  chairs  for  the  bulk  of  his 
visitors,  and  two  wicker  arm-chairs  with  red  cloth  cushions 
for  superior  people.  From  the  packing-cases  had  also 
emerged  some  Indian  clubs,  boxing-gloves,  a  model  oar,  and 
other  modest  trophies  or  mementos  of  his  college  boating 
club ;  and  all  these  articles,  together  with  small  knicknacks 
dating  from  Oxford  days,  made  a  scattered  and  untidy 
decoration  that  Mrs.  dough  assiduously  dusted  and  greatly 
cherished. 

The  bedroom  that  should  have  been  Mrs.  Churchill's  was 
permanently  occupied  by  "the  old  gentleman."  This  was 
Edward's  friend,  Mr.  Philbrick.  After  a  sharp  attack  of 
sciatica,  that  danger  of  the  workhouse  had  recurred;  the 
old  chap's  capacity  for  work  had  dwindled  down  to  some- 
thing very  small  indeed ;  Edward  told  him  in  effect  that  he 
must  work  no  more,  his  future  need  not  worry  him,  he  might 
take  his  ease  at  Denmark  House. 

Early  of  a  morning  the  host  used  to  go  into  the  visitor's 
room,  sit  on  the  edge  of  his  bed,  and  enjoy  a  little  chat. 
However  early  the  hour,  Mr.  Philbrick  was  always  awake, 
and  generally  smoking.  He  sat  high  in  the  bed,  screwing  up 
his  wrinkled  face,  winking  his  bright  birdlike  eyes,  and 
placidly  puffing  out  tobacco  clouds  of  almost  overpowering 
strength  and  rankness. 

"This  is  my  luckserry,"  he  would  say.  "To  lay  here 
before  breakfast,  knowing  I  don't  have  to  get  up  till  when  I 
choose.  I  don't  sleep  much — we  old  fellers  don't  require 
it,  and  I  don't  miss  it.  The  rest  is  sufficient — the  pleasure 
of  the  bed  itself — and  what  I  call  the  luckserry." 

Sometimes  they  read  the  collect  of  the  day  together. 
Formal  prayer,  with  kneeling  out  of  bed  or  on  the  bed,  would 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  185 

naturally  have  interfered  with  the  luxurious  sensations,  and 
Churchill  never  suggested  it.  But  Mr.  Philbrick  liked  "a 
bit  of  'oly  readin',"  cheerfully  putting  down  his  pipe,  and 
repeating  the  sacred  names  with  unction  and  contentment. 

"Thank  you  very  kindly,  sir.  I  shall  be  up  and  about 
before  you're  in  from  yer  fust  round.  .  .  .  Er,  might  I 
respec'fully  ast  you  to  'and  me  the  matches?" 

Other  guests,  for  long  and  short  periods,  were  young 
priests.  Amongst  them  was  a  consumptive,  and  him  Churchill 
dispatched  on  a  sea  voyage.  Another  of  them  had  broken 
the  vows  of  the  brotherhood  to  which  he  belonged.  Another 
had  got  into  dire  disgrace  by  drink,  and  was  in  danger  of 
being  inhibited.  These  were  difficult  cases  sent  to  him  by  the 
Verschoyles. 

But  generally  he  found  the  guests  himself — honest  workers 
in  their  dire  need,  when  no  work  was  forthcoming ;  offenders 
just  released  from  the  clutches  of  the  law  and  anxious  to 
start  fair  again,  yet  ready  to  return  to  crime ;  feeble,  helpless, 
hopeless  incompetents ;  the  wreckage  thrown  in  his  way  by 
the  ocean  of  life.  He  took  them  in  when  they  wanted  shelter; 
he  turned  them  out  when  they  lingered  because  of  mere 
idleness.  He  was  not  softly  kind  to  them.  He  liked  their 
company,  but  their  room  was  so  urgently  needed.  And  thus, 
little  by  little,  Denmark  House  became  recognised  as  a  sort 
of  hostel  or  place  of  refuge  instead  of  a  strictly  private 
residence. 

He  was  doing  much  for  the  parish  in  other  ways.  He  had 
provided  funds  for  a  new  mission  room  on  the  southern 
boundary,  for  a  fourth  curate,  and  for  repairs  to  the  fabric 
of  the  church.  That  dividing  line  between  capital  and 
income  ceased  to  restrict  his  expenditure.  Why  should  he 
hoard  any  longer  ?  When  money  was  wanted  to  gladden  the 
heart  of  Walsden,  he  sold  out  some  stock  and  produced  it. 
But  he  spent  freely  now  on  his  own  account,  without 
Walsden's  advice — gifts  made  from  hand  to  hand,  grants  in 
aid  of  young  men  who  wished  to  emigrate,  marriage  por- 
tions ;  donations  to  a  foundlings'  home  at  Barking ;  mainte- 
nance of  seaside  camps,  after  the  source  of  ordinary  sub- 
scriptions ran  dry. 

His  position  in  the  parish  every  week  seemed  to  strengthen 
itself.  Money  at  St.  Bede's  went  a  long  way,  and  its  imme- 


186  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

diate  effects  were  readily  perceptible.  The  people  regarded 
him  as  an  opulent  prince,  some  one  far  above  the  vicar. 
But  Mr.  Walsden  never  had  the  least  jealousy  in  this  regard ; 
he  gloried  in  the  possession  of  his  rich  curate ;  and,  although 
often  rebuking  greedy  members  of  the  flock  for  their  out- 
rageous claims,  he  told  Churchill,  "They  love  you  for 
yourself,  not  for  your  money." 

And,  indeed,  he  was  greatly  trusted.  People  came  to  him 
in  their  trouble,  asking  spiritual  comfort  and  desiring  nothing 
else.  The  women  especially,  of  all  ages,  sought  interviews 
with  Mr.  Churchill.  It  was  useless  now  to  send  them  to  the 
vicarage,  to  Mr.  Gardiner,  or  to  Mr.  Nape.  They  would 
not  go. 

He  used  to  let  them  talk  to  him,  and  he  listened,  saying 
very  little.  Before  they  left  he  gave  them  a  few  words  of 
simple  advice,  telling  them  to  be  brave,  to  be  clean,  to  take 
care  of  themselves — their  bodies  as  well  as  their  souls. 
"When  everything  else  goes  wrong  at  home,  don't  go  wrong 
yourself" — and  so  on.  Sometimes  he  lent  them  books: 
health  manuals,  domestic  treatises,  tracts  on  the  virtue  of 
self-respect. 

Always  that  change  of  his  estimates  in  regard  to  the  rela- 
tive importance  of  the  spiritual  and  the  material  need  was 
continuing.  More  and  more  his  interest  was  aroused  in  work 
outside  the  Church  world.  He  used  to  go  to  the  London 
Hospital  and  admire  the  marvellous  organisation  of  the  vast 
establishment.  He  had  made  many  friends  among  the 
doctors  there,  and  he  enjoyed  his  long  quiet  talks  with  them 
when  he  could  catch  them  off  duty.  They  told  him  so  much 
that  he  had  never  properly  understood  till  now.  He  also 
frequently  visited  a  small  hospital  in  the  Poplar  district; 
and  here  he  sat  by  the  bedsides  of  sailors,  hearing  tales  of  the 
sea— of  perils  bravely  encountered,  of  avoidable  sufferings 
cheerfully  borne,  of  the  floating  hell  that  a  ship  may  become 
when  nature  and  men  join  hands  in  the  work  of  pitiless 
cruelty.  Whenever  he  was  able  to  do  so  he  spent  an  afternoon 
at  the  orphans'  or  waifs'  institution  that  he  had  recently  dis- 
covered at  Barking.  He  loved  these  boys  who  had  never 
known  a  father's  name.  And,  wherever  he  was,  he  thought 
of  the  folly  of  mankind  in  still  passively  accepting  evils 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  187 

that  ages  and  ages  ago  should  for  ever  have  been  rendered 
impossible. 

Walsden  saw  the  change  in  his  curate's  mental  attitude, 
and  one  day  he  frankly  spoke  of  it.  It  was  characteristic 
of  him  that  the  place  he  chose  for  speaking  was  the  open 
street,  and  that  he  did  not  find  time  to  finish  what  he  wished 
to  say.  They  were  standing  in  the  narrow  side  street,  by  the 
door  of  the  southern  mission  room,  and  he  began  abruptly 
about  Churchill's  sermons.  "I  wish,"  he  said,  "that  you 
would  revert  to  your  original  line — the  line,  you  know,  that 
made  such  a  stir  among  us.  Rub  it  into  them  again  about 
prayer.  That  lifted  them.  Last  Sunday  night  I  thought 
you  got  a  bit  too  business-like — too  much  like  a  lecture  on 
practical  politics." 

"Oh,  is  that  so?" 

"I  thought  so ;"  and  Walsden  beamed,  and  gave  Churchill 
a  friendly  slap  on  the  shoulder.  "With  any  one  else,  I  should 
beat  about  the  bush,  perhaps — not  that  I'm  good  at  round- 
abouts— but  with  you,  I  know  I'm  safe.  You've  always 
been  too  big  to  be  touchy.  .  .  .  Good  morning.  Hope  your 
wife's  better."  He  had  interrupted  himself  to  speak  to  a 
workman  who  was  slouching  toward  some  other  workmen 
at  an  opposite  corner  of  the  street.  "What  was  I  saying? 
Yes,  tell  'em  to  pray.  That  was  the  line.  Nowadays  you've 
got  off  it.  It's  all  'Help  one  another,'  instead  of  'Pray  for 
one  another.' " 

"Is  it?"  And  Churchill  promised  that  he  would  preach 
again  on  prayer.  His  sermons  seemed  to  be  less  important 
than  in  the  past,  he  did  not  prepare  them  so  laboriously,  he 
had  no  personal  pleasure  in  delivering  them,  and  he  refused 
all  invitations  to  hold  forth  beyond  the  confines  of  St.  Bede's. 

"Thanks.  And  in  this  connection  there  was  a  hint  about 
our  old,  little  controversy — receiving  confessions,  you  know. 
Well " 

But  just  then  somebody  spoke  to  Mr.  Walsden  from  the 
opposite  pavement.  It  was  a  big,  black-coated  man  with  a 
bowler  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  who  came  hurrying.  As 
he  passed  he  made  a  gesture  with  his  hand,  as  though  waving 
off  the  vicar,  and  spoke  in  a  loud,  self-important  style. 

"Good  morning  to  you.    I  can't  stop  now." 


188  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

Mr.  Walsden  had  not  desired  this  personage  to  stop,  and 
he  muttered  contemptuously.  "Very  good.  Don't  apologise. 
We  don't  want  you ;"  and  he  stood  looking  after  him. 

A  few  doors  farther  down  the  street  the  pavement  was 
blocked  by  the  little  knot  of  workmen ;  and  the  big  man  took 
one  of  these  by  the  shoulders,  pushed  him  off  the  pavement, 
and,  having  passed,  called  back  truculently,  "That'll  teach 
you  manners.  Get  out  of  the  light  when  you  see  people 
coming." 

"Yes,"  said  Walsden,  "but  who'll  teach  you  manners — 
you  pig?"  And  he  turned  to  Edward  Churchill.  "Did  you 
see  that  ?  Did  you  notice  that  man  ?  They  say  he'll  be  sent 
to  Parliament.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  him  some  time.  Thank 
goodness,  he  has  left  the  parish.  I  must  fly.  Ta-ta." 

Whatever  precepts  on  the  subject  of  confession  the  vicar 
had  intended  to  repeat,  they  were  probably  not  needed  in 
order  to  reinforce  his  well-known  rules  of  conduct.  Churchill 
had  always  obeyed  him,  and  now,  perhaps  not  only  as  a 
result  from  this  habit  of  obedience,  the  difference  of  opinion 
between  them  had  almost  vanished.  The  link  in  what 
Churchill  used  to  call  his  "straight  sequence"  had  worn  so 
thin  that  he  questioned  if  it  were  a  link  at  all,  or  merely  an 
excrescence.  If  the  chain  of  faith  could  hold  together  without 
it,  then  knock  it  off  or  let  it  go.  Since  he  and  the  vicar  were 
now  of  one  mind  in  their  struggle  to  hold  fast  to  essentials, 
they  could  scarcely  be  far  apart  in  their  method  of  dealing 
with  a  surface  difficulty.  Churchill  did  not  particularly 
think  of  this  question  of  confession ;  and  perhaps,  if  he  had 
done  so,  he  would  have  understood  that  he  now  considered 
Walsden  to  be  right.  Perhaps  no  good  ever  came  of  men 
confessing  their  sins  to  men.  Let  them  open  their  hearts 
to  God — let  them  keep  it  all  between  God  and  themselves. 

Certainly  he  felt  no  qualms  in  sending  people  to  the  Com- 
munion Service  without  previous  absolution.  When  the 
women  came  to  see  him,  he  did  not  ask  them  to  lay  bare  any 
secret.  He  looked  at  them,  and  he  seemed  to  understand. 
When,  in  every  varied  tone  of  hope  or  fear,  they  seemed  to 
ask  him  the  one  great  question,  "What  shall  I  do  to  be 
saved?"  he  told  them  to  believe  in  Christ.  "Believe  in 
Him,  and  love  Him.  That  is  all." 

He  used  to  think  so  often,  "If  one  does  not  steadfastly 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  189 

believe  in  the  glory  to  be  achieved  hereafter,  then  what  a 
hideous  nightmare  here  and  now!"  And  of  all  essential 
duties  of  a  priest  the  greatest  must  surely  be  to  strengthen 
faith.  "It  is  not  enough  to  make  these  people  believe  once, 
and  then  leave  them  to  their  own  devices ;  one  must  always 
be  sustaining  the  belief.  For  belief,  however  strong,  may 
grow  weak  and  quickly  perish." 

Some  of  the  boys  at  that  orphanage  were  fierce  and  wild, 
requiring  stern  discipline ;  but  there  were  none  that  did  not 
show  pleasure  at  the  sight  of  Edward  Churchill,  and  none 
that  he  could  not  manage  if  entrusted  to  his  charge.  When 
the  summer  drew  near  he  used  to  present  himself  on  half 
holidays,  and  take  about  twenty  orphans  of  all  sizes  for  an 
afternoon  trip  upon  the  river  Lea.  He  had  hired  an  immense 
tub  of  a  boat  that  held  the  whole  party ;  and  he  taught  the 
bigger  lads  how  to  row — three  of  them  to  an  oar,  bench  after 
bench,  like  Roman  slaves,  splashing  and  toiling.  The  little 
ones  were  in  the  stern,  all  about  him,  chattering,  gesticulat- 
ing. A  few  perhaps  he  smiled  at  more  than  at  the  rest, 
noticing  their  puny  arms,  wizened  faces,  abnormally  devel- 
oped intelligences,  and  remembering  that  they  had  but  lately 
been  rescued  from  the  streets. 

"Oh,  ain't  this  jolly?"  That  was  the  treble  chorus.  The 
peace  and  happiness  changed  them,  elevated  them,  made 
them  sweeter,  gladder,  better  in  one  afternoon. 

Sometimes  he  sculled  the  whole  barge  alone,  while  all 
rested  and  watched. 

"I'll  take  you  as  far  as  the  white  pier." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Churchill,  can  you  do  it?  You  must  be  strong 
as  a  giant." 

And  very  slowly  he  made  the  huge  boat  move — faster — 
still  on.  The  boys  crowed,  and  cheered,  and  thought  it 
miraculous. 

He  rowed  till  the  sweat  poured  off  him,  till  his  chest 
seemed  about  to  crack ;  but  he  felt  as  if,  for  a  time,  he  was 
carrying  their  burdens,  as  if  his  effort  had  lifted  the  cruel 
weight  that  the  sins  of  the  world  had  laid  upon  these  inno- 
cent ones.  He  yearned  with  love  for  the  little  souls,  while 
his  muscles  seemed  to  take  fire,  his  lungs  change  to  dry 
paper,  and  his  heart  become  a  pump  that  filled  his  veins  with 


190  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

pain  instead  of  blood — he  was  almost  killing  himself,  but 
would  give  his  life  and  not  regret  its  loss.  Lightermen  on 
the  banks  watched  also,  their  faces  lit  with  friendly  grins. 
"Brayvo,  guv'nor!  Well  done,  sir!"  And  still  he  plodded 
on,  until  the  boat  drew  level  with  the  white  pier.  Then  he 
stopped,  came  back  to  his  seat  in  the  stern,  gasping,  spas- 
modically quivering,  feeling  as  if  he  had  been  broken  on  the 
wheel.  But  he  was  all  right  directly,  able  to  joke  and  laugh. 
"Hasn't  it  hurt  you,  sir  ?"  And  a  small  hand  was  placed 
upon  his  aching  knee. 

''No,  my  dear  boy,  of  course  not.    I  wanted  to  do  it." 
That  was  his  paramount  need — to  give  himself,  to  spend 
himself,  to  gain  the  peace  that  comes  from  exhaustion.    And 
except  when  doing  it,  he  was  a  profoundly  unhappy  man. 


XXIV 

IN  obedience  to  the  vicar's  request,  Edward  Churchill  had 
prepared  his  new  sermon  on  prayer.  But  before  the  time 
came  to  deliver  it  he  suffered  another  disillusionment,  was 
forced  to  relinquish  another  pretty  idea,  and  once  more  expe- 
rienced a  deepened  sense  of  loss  and  loneliness. 

Walsden,  after  speaking  of  some  members  of  a  dock- 
labourers'  trade  union,  began  to  talk  about  the  secretary 
of  the  union,  Mr.  Robert  Vickers,  and  explained  that  this 
was  the  man  they  had  seen  pushing  humble  folk  into  the 
gutter.  "Yes,  he  is  lord  of  the  poor  fellows — lives  on  their 
pennies,  and  yet  bullies  them.  But  they  believe  in  him,  and 
submit  to  anything.  As  I  told  you,  he  used  to  live  here — 
had  offices  for  two  societies  that  kept  him  going  as  long  as 
they  lasted — and  I  couldn't  persuade  even  our  own  people 
that  they  were  fools  for  letting  him  bleed  them." 

Walsden  said  this  Vickers  was  a  thorough  bad  lot.  He 
drank,  and  he  was  viciously  immoral.  Some  years  ago  he 
had  been  charged  with  a  criminal  assault  on  one  of  his  type- 
writing girls,  but  the  charge  broke  down.  "Once  I  told 
Mr.  Vickers,  to  his  face  and  before  company,  exactly  what 
I  thought  of  him ;  and  yet — could  you  credit  it  ? — he  has  had 
the  impudence  to  write  asking  me  and  the  St.  Bede's  clergy 
to  go  and  hear  him  spout  next  Wednesday  at  the  Red  Eagle 
tavern." 

"Vickers!"  said  Churchill.  "There  is  a  young  woman 
of  that  name.  No  connection  of  his,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes,  his  wife." 

Churchill  at  first  thought  this  must  be  a  mistake.  His 
Miss  Vickers  could  not  possibly  be  Walsden's  Mrs.  Vickers. 
Nevertheless  she  was.  "Yes,  yes,"  said  Walsden — "very 
nice  girl,  friend  of  my  wife's.  She  couldn't  really  have  told 
you  she  was  single.  You've  got  hold  of  the  wrong  end  of  the 
stick." 

"Why  did  she  marry  such  a  brute?" 

"Ah.  Who  can  say?  Found  him  attractive,  one  must 
guess.  Women  are  so  curious — in  these  affairs.  She  must 
regret  it  by  now,  I  should  think." 

191 


192  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

It  was  a  shock  to  find  that  such  a  girl — not  coarse  and 
common,  apparently  altogether  the  reverse — should  care  for 
such  a  man.  And  beyond  the  discomfort  caused  by  the  shat- 
tered ideal,  there  was  something  repellent  in  the  notion  that 
she  was  married  at  all — that  she  belonged  to  anybody  whom- 
soever. He  had  woven  his  fable  about  her,  thinking  of  her 
always  as  solitary,  virginally  mysterious  and  aloof,  bravely 
isolated  from  all  commonplace  dependences  or  supports. 
Then  he  felt  indignant  with  her  herself.  Why  had  she 
allowed  him  to  persist  in  a  foolish  error?  Why  had  she 
posed  as  a  single  girl  merely  because  he  imagined  her  to  be 
one?  Perhaps  she  had  not  consciously  done  this;  perhaps 
the  misunderstanding  had  been  entirely  of  his  own  making 
and  fostering.  When  he  searched  his  memory  of  their  first 
meeting,  he  seemed  to  recall  that  she  had  merely  told  him 
her  name  was  Lilian  Vickers,  and  he,  jumping  to  conclu- 
sions, had  written  her  down  as  Miss.  Probably,  or  at  least 
possibly,  he  had  never  in  their  subsequent  meetings  addressed 
her  as  Miss  Vickers.  Or  if  he  had,  perhaps  she  did  not 
notice — or,  noticing,  perhaps  she  thought  the  mistake  was 
not  worth  correcting.  She  might  have  thought  that,  as 
they  were  practically  strangers,  it  could  not  in  the  least 
matter.  The  whole  thing  would  appear  a  trifle  to  her.  But 
it  did  not  appear  a  trifle  to  him. 

He  could  not  get  it  out  of  his  mind. 

He  thought  of  her  so  much  that  he  put  himself  to  the 
trouble  of  obtaining  further  information  about  her  husband. 
From  Mrs.  Walsden  and  others  he  gathered  that  Vickers  had 
risen  in  the  world  and  now  rather  sunk  again.  He  was  a 
socialist,  an  agitator,  a  tub-thumper.  The  dockers'  union, 
started  and  practically  governed  by  himself,  was  as  yet  small, 
but  he  boastfully  declared  that  it  would  develop  into  some- 
thing tremendous,  and  he  counted  on  its  force  to  thrust  him 
into  Parliament.  He  was  Church  of  England.  He  always 
made  a  point  of  this  in  his  public  utterances,  and  tried  to 
keep  in  with  church-folk,  although  never  himself  seen  in 
church.  His  wife  Lilian  taught  French  as  well  as  the  piano, 
and  was  truly  religious.  Perhaps  Vickers  encouraged  her  to 
go  to  church,  to  attend  classes  and  lectures,  and  thus  save 
him  the  performance  of  an  irksome  duty.  Anyhow,  it  was 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  193 

plain  that  he  clung  to  the  church  connection  as  something 
that  might  be  useful  to  him  politically. 

From  humble  friends  Churchill  learned  that  if  people 
trusted  Mr.  Vickers,  many  were  afraid  of  him. 

"Why  afraid?" 

"Well,  natch'rally,  because  of  all  them  union  chaps  of  his," 
said  Dance,  the  greengrocer.  "It's  ev'dent.  He'd  think 
nothing  of  setting  on  a  dozen  of  his  roughs  to  slip  into  you 
with  their  fists.  He  did  do  it.  Man  he'd  had  a  row  with, 
was  set  upon  and  precious  near  killed." 

But  not  content  with  hearsay  evidence,  Churchill  took  an 
opportunity  of  studying  the  man  himself.  He  sat  among  the 
audience  at  the  back  of  the  room  when  Mr.  Vickers  gave  his 
Red  Eagle  oration. 

Evidently  not  a  gentleman,  Vickers  seemed,  however,  to 
be  well  educated;  at  any  rate,  he  showed  all  the  surface 
signs  of  education,  and  apparently  he  had  been  at  pains  to 
learn  how  to  speak  in  public.  The  matter  of  the  discourse 
was  nonsense — the  usual  diatribes  against  the  upper  classes, 
fulsome  praise  of  all  horney-handed  toilers,  and  promises  of 
the  Utopia  that  might  be  expected  as  soon  as  Labour  orga- 
nised itself  and  was  able  to  secure  adequate  representation 
in  the  House  of  Commons.  But  his  manner — when  con- 
sidered only  in  regard  to  the  purposes  of  the  occasion — was 
good.  He  had  a  swaggering  confidence  and  a  spurious  bon- 
homie that  imposed  on  ignorant  hearers.  One  moment  he 
overawed  them  by  his  learning,  and  the  next  moment  flattered 
them  by  an  assumption  of  entire  equality.  He  frowned, 
bellowed,  made  violent  gestures,  and  then  treated  them  to  a 
joke  and  helped  it  with  a  loud  and  affectedly  jovial  laugh. 
Churchill  instinctively  detested  him,  and  felt  that  the  worst 
that  could  be  said  of  him  must  be  true. 

Physically,  he  was  a  big,  powerful-looking  man,  with  a 
broad  chest,  heavy  shoulders,  and  perhaps  rather  poor  legs. 
Standing  on  the  platform,  he  looked  very  tall,  and  in  fact 
was  probably  an  inch  or  two  over  six  feet.  He  seemed  to  be 
about  thirty-five  years  of  age ;  he  had  dark,  closely  cropped 
hair  and  a  reddish  moustache ;  and  there  was  a  fatness  and 
looseness  about  the  lower  parts  of  his  cheeks,  as  well  as  a 
baggy  fullness  beneath  the  chin,  that  suggested  sensuality 


194  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

and  self-indulgence.  He  was  just  a  pig  and  a  brute.  Yet 
Churchill  could  see  in  him  a  sort  of  blackguardly  hand- 
someness that,  allowing  for  the  deterioration  of  years,  might 
attract — and  even  greatly  attract — vulgar  silly  women. 

Then  he  thought  of  the  delicate  prettiness  and  slim  grace 
of  the  man's  wife.  Could  there  be  truth  in  what  was  said  by 
his  brother  Tom,  by  Walsden,  by  everybody  else — that  all 
women  are  alike? 

When  Sunday  evening  came  and  he  preached  his  sermon 
on  prayer,  it  happened  that  Mrs.  Vickers  was  in  the  church. 
He  saw  her  at  once,  but  he  would  not  look  at  her  again.  He 
thought,  "If  I  look  at  her,  I  shall  be  reminded  of  ugly  things ; 
my  mind  will  wander,  and  I  shall  lose  the  thread  of  what  I 
am  to  say.  Walsden  wants  me  to  tell  them  to  pray  for 
one  another,  and  I  must  do  it  as  forcibly  as  I  can." 

In  the  vestry  after  the  service  Walsden  declared  that  he 
had  done  it  magnificently.  The  handkerchiefs  had  come  out 
in  all  directions,  and  Walsden  himself  had  counted  five  peo- 
ple weeping  at  one  time.  "You  really  did  warm  them  up — • 
quite  in  the  old  style — when  you  said  that  bit  about  unhappi- 
ness.  What  was  it  again  ?  'Pray  for  those  who  are  unhappy, 
whether  you  love  them  or  whether  you  hate  them/  That 
was  it,  wasn't  it  ?  Capital !" 

Churchill  was  not  going  to  sup  at  the  vicarage  to-night, 
and  when  presently  he  went  down  the  empty  church  to  the 
main  door  the  lights  were  turned  out  except  in  the  western 
gallery.  Mr.  White  leaned  over  the  balustrade  by  the  organ 
curtains,  and  told  him  that  the  doors  had  not  yet  been 
locked. 

Beyond  the  swing  doors  the  porch  was  quite  dark,  the 
outer  door  standing  ajar  and  admitting  a  little  light  from  the 
street  lamps  to  guide  one.  As  he  passed,  there  came  a  sound 
from  somewhere  near  the  foot  of  the  gallery  stairs  that 
startled  him.  It  was  like  a  suppressed  sobbing. 

"Who  is  it?    What  is  it?" 

And  out  of  the  darkness  somebody  spoke  to  him. 

"Mr.  Churchill,  will  you  pray  for  me?  I  am  very 
unhappy." 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Yes,  I  will  pray  for  you — Mrs.  Vickers. 
...  It  is  Mrs.  Vickers,  is  it  not?  .  .  .  Good-night." 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  195 

And  he  went  out  of  the  porch.  She  did  not  follow  him, 
and  after  a  few  moments  he  came  back  again. 

"Mrs.  Vickers" — and  he  spoke  now  more  gently  and  with 
greater  friendliness  than  before,  "would  you  care  to  come 
and  see  me  at  Denmark  House  some  day,  and  let  us  talk 
about  your  troubles — whatever  they  are?" 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  would  like — if  you  are  sure 
you  don't  mind.  I've  no  right  to  bother  you.  I'm  not  in 
the  parish." 

"Send  me  a  line  to  say  when  you  are  coming." 

"May  I  come  to-morrow  afternoon?" 

"Yes.    What  time?" 

"Six  o'clock — if  that  would  suit  you." 

"Yes."    And  again  he  bade  her  good-night. 

He  walked  home,  thinking,  "This  is  very  strange.  It  is 
as  though  she  had  answered  my  secret  thoughts." 

She  did  regret  her  marriage,  bitterly  and  desperately.  In 
their  long  quiet  talk  together,  although  she  never  once  said 
it  explicitly,  Churchill  assured  himself  of  the  obvious  fact  in 
a  dozen  different  ways.  And  before  their  talk  was  over  she 
had  entirely  re-established  herself  in  his  mind.  She  was 
truly  what  she  had  seemed. 

She  was  dreadfully  shy  and  nervous  at  first,  making  apolo- 
gies for  wasting  his  time  and  explaining  that  she  had  no 
justification.  She  said  that  yesterday  had  been  a  long  and 
tiring  day  for  her;  it  had  been  difficult  to  get  away  from 
home ;  she  was  late  in  starting  for  St.  Bede's,  and  then  the 
trams  were  full  and  she  walked  most  of  the  distance,  hurry- 
ing. So  that  when  she  reached  the  church  she  was  perhaps 
rather  overwrought,  and  the  sermon  moving  her  greatly,  she 
broke  down  in  a  silly  manner  of  which  she  was  now  ashamed. 
This  morning  she  had  intended  to  write  to  say  that  she 
would  not  trouble  him  to  receive  her,  but  then  she  had 
thought  he  might  not  understand.  So  she  had  come. 

And  Churchill  perfectly  understood  that  she  had  come 
because  she  wanted  to  come.  She,  like  so  many  other  of  his 
visitors,  was  impelled  by  the  most  simple  and  direct  motives, 
although  to  her  they  might  seem  obscure.  Life  had  rendered 
her  piteously  sad ;  she  longed  to  speak  of  her  sadness ;  she 
craved  for  human  sympathy,  and  as  yet  could  not  find  it. 


196  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

Divine  aid  she  possessed ;  but,  although  her  faith  disclosed 
itself  as  beautiful  and  steadfast,  this  was  not  quite  enough. 
She  desired,  she  needed  to  hear  the  voice  of  a  fellow- 
creature  telling  that  others  are  bearing  their  sadness  bravely ; 
that  she,  too,  must  be  brave  and  fear  nothing. 

This,  in  effect,  was  what  Edward  Churchill  told  her ;  and 
he  saw  that  he  had  succeeded  in  comforting  her,  strengthen- 
ing her,  and  giving  her  fresh  courage. 

He  begged  her  to  come  and  see  him  again  whenever  she 
desired  to  do  so;  and  from  time  to  time  she  repeatd  her 
visits.  Rapidly  they  became  able  to  talk  freely,  as  though 
they  had  known  each  other  for  a  long  time ;  but  she  always 
maintained  her  reticence  in  regard  to  the  actual  causes  of  her 
misery.  She  hinted  at  them,  but  never  stated  them.  It  did 
not  matter :  he  could  guess  them  all,  and,  thinking  of  them, 
his  heart  melted  in  pity. 

He  knew  her  history  now.  Her  parents  died  while  she  was 
still  a  child;  she  had  eaten  the  bread  of  charity  during  her 
last  three  years  at  school;  then,  as  governess  in  a  country 
house,  she  had  met  Vickers,  and  married  him  a  month  after 
their  first  meeting.  Churchill  could  imagine  it — the  man 
coming  with  his  swagger,  his  flashy  rhetoric,  his  affected  en- 
thusiasms, and  the  poor  little  lonely  girl  thinking,  "This  is 
the  grand  chivalrous  knight  who  is  going  to  rescue  me."  And 
instead  of  a  courtly  knight,  he  had  proved  a  brutal  jailer. 
He  had  been  systematically  unkind,  depriving  her  of  love, 
and  yet  not  allowing  her  freedom  from  the  ugly  manifesta- 
tions that  only  loved  wives  should  know.  Like  a  hog,  he 
had  trampled  on  the  pretty  flower  that  he  had  snatched  at 
and  uprooted. 

There  had  been  a  baby,  who  died ;  and  the  young  mother's 
grief  had  almost  broken  her  heart.  Yet  Churchill  instinc- 
tively understood  that  she  wished  for  no  other  child  to  take 
the  place  of  her  lost  one.  It  was  bad  to  be  childless;  it 
was  worse  to  have  children  of  such  a  father. 

One  night,  during  an  illness  of  the  St.  Bede's  organist,  she 
came  over  to  play  the  organ  instead  of  Mrs.  Walsden.  It 
seemed  to  Churchill  that  she  played  splendidly,  not  only 
better  than  poor  Mrs.  Walsden,  but  as  well  as  any  one  he 
had  ever  heard  playing ;  she  made  their  organ  seem  as  grand 
an  instrument  as  Father  Bryan's ;  she  filled  the  church  with 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  197 

rolling,  swelling  melody.  Afterwards  he  walked  with  her  as 
far  as  the  tram-lines,  and  it  chanced  that,  as  an  escort,  he 
proved  of  some  slight  service.  Outside  a  public-house  three 
drunken  men  were  indisposed  to  let  them  pass,  and,  had  she 
been  by  herself,  they  would  unquestionably  have  caused  her 
annoyance. 

At  sight  of  these  drunken  reeling  men  and  at  the  sound  of 
their  thick,  loud  voices,  Lilian  Vickers  betrayed  a  feeling  of 
horror  unusual  in  anybody  accustomed  to  the  East  End; 
and  Churchill  thought,  "Yes,  that  is  the  sort  of  thing  she  has 
to  face  at  home  sometimes." 

He  put  her  into  her  tram,  and  stood  looking  after  it,  think- 
ing of  what 'she  was  going  back  to. 

Why  should  a  sweet,  good,  patient  creature  like  that  be 
so  sorely  tried?  It  was  a  question — if  she  ever  put  it  fairly 
to  herself — so  difficult  to  answer  that  it  might  shake  the 
very  foundations  of  her  faith.  He  thought  of  this  peril.  If 
she  lost  her  faith,  what  would  become  of  her?  Then  in- 
deed one  might  call  her  miserable.  This  thought  preyed 
upon  his  mind  fearfully,  and  he  determined  to  discuss  her 
case  in  all  its  aspects  with  the  vicar.  Walsden  had  great 
natural  wisdom,  as  well  as  endless  experience;  he  might 
be  able  to  suggest  how  best  one  could  help  her. 

But  Walsden  on  this  occasion  was  both  unsympathetic 
and  stupid.  His  general  view  of  the  situation  seemed  to 
be  that,  having  made  her  bed,  Mrs.  Vickers  must  lie  on  it; 
and  he  said,  as  his  only  special  advice,  "I  should  drop  it,  if 
I  were  you.  Yes,  just  leave  it  alone." 

Edward  Churchill  could  not,  of  course,  leave  it  alone. 
Implicitly,  she  was  asking  him  for  assistance;  he  could 
not  fold  his  hands,  and  altogether  disregard  the  appeal. 

"You  see,"  said  Walsden  reflectively,  "as  I  found  out 
years  ago,  when  a  married  woman  comes  like  this,  and 
makes  her  confession " 

"Mrs.  Vickers,"  said  Churchill,  almost  warmly,  "has 
made  no  confession  to  me.  Obviously  not,  or  I  shouldn't 
be  talking  about  it  to  you.  No,  I  have  had  several  inter- 
views with  her,  and  we  discussed  nothing  but  broad  prin- 
ciples. Nevertheless,  I  can  see  that  she  is  utterly  wretched 
with  that  man.  You  know  what  he  is,  yourself." 


198  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

"Yes,  quite  so.  But  he  is  her  husband.  She  married 
him  for  better,  for  worse." 

And,  unnecessarily,  stupidly,  Walsden  harked  back  to 
confessions.  "There's  the  trouble — these  women.  It  was 
that  which  first  put  me  against  it.  I  saw  so  much  of  it  in 
the  Midlands.  I  used  to  say,  'If  it's  anything  you  could  talk 
over  with  your  elder  brother — anything  he  could  put  right 
for  you — come  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  Just  consider  I'm 
your  brother.'  And  to  make  them  understand,  I  called 
them  Sister.  'Well,  now' — Sister  Alice — or  Sister  Kate — if 
I  knew  their  Christian  name,  'what's  the  little  rumpus?' 
I  found  the  wisdom  of  following  this  line,  because " 

"Yes,  no  doubt,"  said  Churchill,  "but  all  that  does  not 
in  the  least  apply  to  the  present  case." 

"No,  no,"  said  Walsden,  "I  am  merely  talking  in  the  air — 
defending  my  theories,  which,  I  well  know,  you  have  loyally 
respected,  although  opposed  to  your  own.  No,  I'd  for- 
gotten all  about  poor  Mrs.  Vickers.  As  to  her  case,  I've 
given  you  my  opinion.  .  .  .  When  young  Nape  joined 
us,  I  said  just  the  same  to  him,  and  so  I  did  to  Grevil.  I 
told  them,  "Beware  of  the  women  who  come  to  a  clergy- 
man in  their  domestic  and  private  troubles.'  Why,  at 
Clackhaven,"  and  Walsden  laughed  good-humouredly,  "the 
mill-girls  would  try  to  'take  on  the  parson' — give  him  'a 
teasing,'  as  they  called  it — and  leave  their  sweethearts  wait- 
ing outside  in  the  street  to  make  them  jealous.  Yes,  and 
the  matrons  too — who  ought  to  know  better — getting 
spoony  on  the  curate!  Human  nature  is  the  same  all  the 
world  over.  Women  are  all  one.  If  I  found  any  nonsense 
— of  any  sort — I  made  some  excuse  and  got  my  wife  into 
the  room — to  break  off.  They  understood.  It  reminded 
them." 

Then  Walsden  laughed  again,  and  spoke  enthusiastically. 
"But  Africa  was  the  place!"  And  he  said  a  few  words 
about  dusky  belles  who  disturbed  his  tent  by  their  artlessly 
improper  advances. 

All  this  was  extraordinarily  distasteful  to  Churchill.  It 
was  ugly,  gross.  Unpleasing  mental  pictures  rose  unbidden 
of  a  missionary's  temptations.  Never  before  had  he  felt 
such  repulsion  when  the  vicar  displayed  his  characteristic 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  199 

bluntness  or  coarseness  of  speech.  In  the  present  connec- 
tion— or  rather  as  a  transition  from  the  subject  that  had 
started  their  conversation — such  talk  had  been  distressingly 
out  of  place.  He  went  away  feeling  disgusted  with 
Walsden. 

He  must  do  something.  From  one  or  another,  he  was 
always  hearing  further  facts  about  the  hardship  of  her  life. 
The  man  made  her  work  hard  at  teaching,  he  was  greedy  to 
make  engagements  for  her  at  schools,  he  did  not  mind  how 
far  he  sent  her  afield;  and  all  her  earnings  went  straight 
into  his  pocket.  He  doled  out  to  her  a  few  coins,  grudg- 
ingly, for  immediate  needs. 

It  chanced  that  a  dock  labourer  who  had  belonged  to  his 
Union  and  wanted  to  rejoin  it  stayed  for  a  few  nights  at 
Denmark  House,  and  from  him  Churchill  heard  still  more. 
Vickers  was  notoriously  unfaithful  to  her;  he  would  take 
up  with  any  trash,  and  leave  her  by  herself  for  days  and 
weeks  at  a  time.  At  their  home,  the  servant  was  a  feeble 
old  woman  who  let  the  mistress  do  most  of  the  work.  They 
used  to  have  proper,  vigorous  young  servants  once;  but  he 
made  it  impossible  for  any  decent  girl  to  remain  there 
long. 

Churchill  suddenly  had  an  idea,  and  it  seemed  so  excel- 
lent that  he  wondered  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  before. 
Mrs.  Verschoyle  was  the  person  to  advise.  If  he  could 
gain  her  friendship  for  Lilian  Vickers,  she  would  be  the 
person  to  bring  real  aid. 

But  for  the  very  first  time  Mrs.  Verschoyle  disappointed 
him.  She  talked  kindly  and  finely;  she  was  not  unsympa- 
thetic, as  Walsden  had  been,  and  yet  her  advice  was  almost 
an  exact  echo  of  his.  She  advised  Edward  Churchill  to 
drop  it. 

She  knew  nothing  of  Mrs.  Vickers  personally;  she  had 
never  even  heard  of  her;  and  she  showed  a  disinclination  to 
make  her  acquaintance,  pleading  that  she  had  already  so 
many  people  who  required  perpetual  attention,  reminding 
him  of  the  local  calls  upon  her  time.  Of  course  she  knew 
Vickers  by  reputation.  She  had  never  heard  any  good  of 
him;  but  she  sincerely  trusted  he  was  not  quite  so  bad  as 
Churchill  thought. 


200  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

"He  is — every  bit.  Oh,  surely  one  can  do  something  for 
this  innocent  creature,  who  is  daily  suffering  because  of  his 
wickedness !" 

"Is  she  a  believer?"  asked  Mrs.  Verschoyle. 

"Yes,  a  fervent  believer." 

"A  good  Catholic?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  it  ought  not  to  be  so  difficult  for  her,"  and  Mrs. 
Verschoyle's  handsome  face  hardened  a  little.  "She  knows 
her  duty.  She  must  do  it." 

"How  can  I  help  her  in  doing  her  duty?" 

"You  can't  help  her  more  than  I  suppose  you  have 
already." 

"But  some  practical  step." 

"Christian,  you  can't  help  her.  If  it  is  practical  aid  you 
think  of,  the  only  chance  would  be  to  get  at  the  husband. 
Influence  him,  if  you  can," 


XXV 

CHURCHILL  determined  to  seek  the  friendship  of  Robert 
Vickers,  and,  if  it  were  possible,  lead  him  in  the  direction 
of  better  things. 

An  excuse  for  paying  an  initial  call  readily  presented 
itself :  he  could  talk  to  Mr.  Vickers  about  his  visitor,  the 
dock  labourer.  Accordingly  he  set  forth  to  carry  this  new 
idea  into  effect  on  the  afternoon  that  followed  his  unsatis- 
factory discussion  with  Mrs.  Verschoyle. 

It  was  a  long  tram  ride,  far  out,  past  Poplar  Station; 
and  then  he  had  a  little  exploring  walk  to  the  north  of  the 
main  road  before  he  found  the  house.  About  this  particu- 
lar neighbourhood  there  had  been  of  late  considerable  de- 
molitions and  reconstructions ;  the  new  streets  seemed  of  a 
fair  pattern;  here  and  there  narrow  passages  connected 
street  to  street,  and  there  were  many  turnings  that  led  one 
to  short  and  abrupt  no-thoroughfares.  In  one  of  these, 
approached  both  by  a  passage  and  a  street,  stood  the  resi- 
dence of  Mr.  Vickers.  On  one  side  of  it  there  was  a  hoard- 
ing that  hid  a  patch  of  vacant  ground,  on  the  other  side  a 
high  wall  surmounted  by  broken  glass.  The  house  itself 
— a  lowish  building  of  two  floors — looked  as  if  it  must 
originally  have  been  occupied  as  a  place  of  business  and 
then  converted  to  private  use.  Judged  by  East  End  stand- 
ards, it  appeared  more  than  respectable,  quite  imposing  in 
regard  to  its  size,  and  dignified  because  of  its  isolated  posi- 
tion. It  had  an  ornamental  knocker  and  an  electric  push- 
bell,  and,  fixed  to  the  brickwork  beside  the  door,  there  were 
brass  plates  that  announced  Mr.  Vickers's  association  with 
the  trade  union  and  other  societies. 

It  was  Mrs.  Vickers  who  came  to  open  the  door,  and  she 
flushed  with  surprise.  Churchill  himself  was  struck  with 
sudden  embarrassment.  He  had  never  before  seen  her 
without  her  hat,  and  he  stood  staring  at  her  rather  stupidly 
before  he  began  to  explain  that  he  was  a  visitor  for  her  hus- 
band. He  was  thinking,  "This  is  what  she  is  at  home;" 

201 


202  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

and  she  seemed  to  him  prettier,  sweeter,  more  pathetically 
interesting,  than  under  any  aspect  that  had  hitherto  been 
familiar  to  him. 

The  voice  of  the  master  of  the  house,  sounding  from  a 
little  distance,  roused  him  to  give  all  his  attention  to  the 
business  in  hand. 

"Who  the  devil's  that  out  there  ?"  said  the  voice  loudly. 

"I  am  Edward  Churchill — of  St.  Bede's,"  said  the  visitor, 
entering  the  small  hall,  and  speaking  sufficiently  loudly  to 
be  sure  that  he  was  heard.  "May  I  come  in?  Can  you 
spare  me  a  few  minutes?" 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course." 

Then  Mrs.  Vickers  conducted  the  visitor  through  the 
open  doorway  to  the  right  of  the  hall,  down  two  steps,  into 
an  unexpectedly  large  room. 

"Well,  Mr.  Churchill,"  said  Vickers,  shaking  hands,  and 
speaking  politely  enough;  "I  am  sure  I'm  very  glad  to 
see  you.  Sit  down.  Lilian,  move  your  rubbish,  can't  you  ?" 
and  he  pointed  to  a  chair. 

Lilian  Vickers  picked  up  a  leather  case  and  some  school 
books  that  encumbered  the  seat  of  the  chair,  and  carried 
them  to  a  side  table. 

"Yes,  glad  to  meet  you,"  said  Vickers,  with  the  note  of 
forced  joviality  in  his  voice.  "I've  heard  enough  about 
you — and  your  wonderful  works.  But,  as  they  say  in  the 
plays,  To  what  do  I  owe  the  honour?"  and  he  gave  his 
affected  laugh. 

Then  Churchill  spoke  about  the  dock-labourer.  Vickers 
listened,  but  soon  broke  in  curtly. 

"Anyhow,  what  is  it?  The  fellow  was  kicked  out  be- 
cause he  defaulted  in  his  subscriptions.  Does  he  make 
that  a  quarrel  ?" 

"No,  but  he  wants  to  be  reinstated." 

"Can  he  clear  off  his  arrears,  and  pay  up — to  date?" 

"Yes,  I  think  he  will  be  able  to  do  that." 

"Then  I  don't  see  that  there  need  be  any  difficulty.  I 
suppose  you  mean  to  pay  the  money  for  him  yourself." 

"Yes.  I  believe  him  to  be  an  honest,  straightforward 
worker,  who  has  simply  had  bad  luck." 

"Oh,  they're  all  angels,"  said  Vickers,  with  another  laugh, 
"when  they  get  among  you  black-coated  gentlemen,  and 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  203 

see  you  fingering  your  purse-strings — especially  when  it  is 
such  a  long  purse  as  yours." 

"I  am  not  by  any  means  a  rich  man.  All  that  is  a 
tradition." 

"Is  it  ?  They  talk  of  you  as  if  you  were  Croesus — and  I 
expect  the  beggars  sponge  on  you  unconscionably."  And 
Vickers  launched  forth  in  a  tirade  very  different  from  his 
platform  utterances.  He  spoke  with  supreme  contempt  of 
the  dense  stupidity  exhibited  on  all  occasions  by  the  work- 
ing classes.  He  said  that  if  you  wanted  to  do  anything  for 
them,  you  must  rule  them,  not  pamper  them.  Soft  heart- 
edness  caused  more  harm  than  good.  You  had  to  let  them 
hear  the  crack  of  the  whip;  for  they  were  always  dogs 
ready  to  round  on  you,  if  you  didn't  keep  them  in  order. 
"We  have  all  found  it  out.  We  give  our  lives  to  their 
service ;  we  fight  their  battles  for  them,  we  gain  ground  inch 
by  inch,  we  reach  the  point  when,  if  they  would  stand  firm 
behind  us,  we  could  win  nearly  all  we've  been  struggling  for 
— and  then,  at  the  crucial  moment,  confound  them,  they'll 
go  over  to  the  enemy,  leave  you  in  the  lurch,  and  chuck 
away  the  fruits  of  the  victory  for  which  you  have  been 
bleeding  and  sweating.  And  ingratitude!  Personally,  I 
don't  look  for  it;  so  I  don't  whine  about  the  absence  of  it, 
like  George  Radley  and  Vyvian  Yates.  But  they're  blackly 
ungrateful.  You  church-people  won't  believe  it.  You're 
always  astonished  when  they  bite  the  hand  that  feeds  them ;" 
and  he  laughed  once  more.  "Look  here,  this  is  entre  nous, 
Masonic — what  Wemmick  called  his  Walworth  sentiments. 
I  dare  say  I'm  shocking  you." 

Churchill  was  merely  glad  that  his  host  went  on  talking, 
however  odiously.  He  was  so  interested  by  other  matters. 
Everything  in  this  room  interested  him  absorbingly.  It  was 
her  prison,  the  place  to  which  he  had  sent  her  back,  begging 
her  to  suffer  there  patiently,  to  do  her  duty,  to  comfort  her- 
self with  thoughts  of  a  deliverance  that  could  come  only 
with  death. 

It  was  really  quite  a  large  room,  so  large  that  unques- 
tionably it  must  have  been  planned  for  an  office  or  perhaps 
a  store-place,  such  as  small  builders  and  plumbers  require. 
The  central  table,  and  a  dresser  with  plates,  dishes,  jugs, 
and  a  cupboard  underneath  it,  gave  evidence  that  the  room 


204  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

was  dining-room  as  well  as  drawing-room.  And  place  of 
business  too — for  there  was  a  safe  let  into  the  walls  at  a 
corner,  there  were  piles  of  red  leather  account  books,  and 
an  American  desk  covered  with  paper,  stood  beside  the 
cottage  piano.  Vickers  received  the  rank  and  file  of  his 
union  here,  extracted  their  continuous  subscriptions,  counted 
out  rare  sick  allowances;  and  he  would  pose  as  a  person 
who  was  content  with  a  single  living  room,  saying,  "You 
see  for  yourselves.  Nothing  of  the  swell  about  me.  This 
is  what  the  missis  and  I  have  to  put  up  with." 

Churchill  had  the  intuition  of  such  a  purpose,  and  thought 
that,  but  for  it,  the  room  would  have  been  finer  and  more 
comfortable.  The  whitewashed  ceiling  and  chimneypiece, 
the  boarded  floor  and  loose  mats,  the  common  coal-scuttle 
and  fire-irons,  were  intended  to  indicate  honest  and  un- 
ashamed poverty;  but  in  less  salient  objects  Churchill's 
practised  eye  detected  a  freedom  of  expenditure  only  pos- 
sible to  those  who  are  comparatively  affluent.  The  oil  lamps 
were  solid  and  of  good  design;  they  had  cost  big  money. 
There  was  a  leather  arm-chair  with  book-rest  and  foot-rest 
that  must  have  come  from  some  luxurious  West  End  shop. 
A  few  water-colours  on  a  screen  showed  distinct  merit  and 
had  not  been  presented  to  Vickers  by  the  artists ;  moreover,  a 
litter  of  illustrated  weekly  journals,  monthly  magazines,  and 
quarterly  reviews  were  proof  of  something  amounting  to 
extravagance. 

Beyond  all  these  significant  details,  Edward  Churchill 
was  interested  by  signs  here  and  there  of  feminine  occupa- 
tion of  the  room.  The  flowers  in  pots  before  the  two  win- 
dows had  been  put  there  by  Lilian  Vickers.  The  cheap 
little  books — reprints  of  the  poets — belonged  to  her.  On 
the  top  of  the  piano  he  saw  her  hat,  her  black  gloves,  and 
a  purple-coloured  neck-scarf.  His  eyes  returned  to  them, 
and,  moving  on,  rested  on  her  herself.  She  stood  near  the 
piano,  lingering — turning  a  sheet  of  music  in  her  long 
white  fingers,  but  listening  and  watching.  That  delicate 
pink  flush  had  not  yet  gone  from  her  cheeks,  her  lips  were 
just  open  and  she  breathed  quickly,  as  if  still  agitated  by 
the  surprise  she  had  felt  at  seeing  the  unexpected  visitor 
on  the  doorstep. 

"You   know,    I'm    staunch    Church   of    England,"    said 


205 

Vickers  impressively.  "I  don't  believe  in  any  form  of 
socialism  that  leaves  religion  out  of  the  programme.  That's 
where  I  speedily  broke  away  from  Vyvian  Yates.  I  saw 
that  if  you  knock  down  Christianity,  you've  got  to  build  up 
something  better  to  take  the  place  of  it — and  it's  a  deuced 
clever  fellow  who's  going  to  try.  No,  in  all  my  public 
career,  I've  never  said  a  disrespectful  word  of  the  Church. 
No  one  who  has  heard  me  speak,  year  after  year,  can  hon- 
estly pretend  that  I  am  destructive  on  that  side,  at  any  rate." 

"I  have  only  had  the  opportunity  of  hearing  you  speak 
once,"  said  Churchill. 

"When  was  that?" 

"I  went  to  your  meeting  at  the  Red  Eagle  tavern." 

"Well  done,"  cried  Vickers  cordially.    "Sporting  of  you !" 

It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  been  really  cordial;  but 
now  he  seemed  to  be  genuinely  gratified  and  his  manner  be- 
came expansive.  "Yes,"  he  repeated,  "you  acted  like  a 
sportsman.  Old  broad-toes — what's-his-name  ? — Walsden 
— hates  me  like  the  devil.  I  wish  I'd  known  you  were  there. 
I'd  have  paid  you  a  compliment  for  your  liberality  of  mind. 
Have  a  cigar?" 

"No,  thank  you." 

Mr.  Vickers  had  moved  towards  the  dresser  cupboard, 
and,  passing  his  wife,  he  said  something  to  her  in  an  under- 
tone. Immediately  she  picked  up  her  hat,  and  went  out  of 
the  room.  Doubtless  she  had  been  ordered  to  go.  Now 
that  Mr.  Vickers  was  beginning  to  feel  rather  pleased  with 
his  new  acquaintance  he  thought  that  two  are  company  and 
three  are  none. 

"Have  a  whisky-and-soda  ?" 

"No,  I'm  obliged  to  you,  but  I  won't  have  anything,  thank 
you." 

"But  you'll  forgive  me  if  I  do.  Talking's  dry  work — and 
I  shall  enjoy  a  chat  with  you,  if  you  aren't  in  a  hurry.  As 
I  dare  say  you've  found  out,  it's  a  treat  to  meet  a  man  of 
education  and  ideas  in  these  parts.  One's  intellect  goes 
rusty  for  the  want  of  intercourse  with  one's  own  kind." 

All  this  was  just  what  Edward  Churchill  had  desired 
might  happen,  and  yet  now  it  was  almost  intolerably  un- 
pleasant. The  more  amiable  the  man  grew,  the  more 
Churchill  disliked  him.  Everything  concerning  him  was  re- 


206  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

pellent ;  all  that  one  had  heard  of  him,  all  that  one  now  saw 
of  him,  alike  caused  one  to  regret  that  one  need  ever  again 
have  anything  to  do  with  him.  He  was  vulgar,  conceited, 
innately  brutal.  The  big  yellowish  teeth  that  showed 
beneath  his  red  moustache,  the  russet  tone  of  his  badly- 
shaven  jowl,  the  ill-tempered  glitter  that  came  into  his  eyes 
every  time  that  he  spoke  forcibly  or  cynically  as  he  had 
done  a  minute  ago,  his  great  shoulders,  his  swaggering 
gestures,  and  clumsy  lolling  attitudes — each  of  these  things 
assisted  in  strengthening  the  instinct  of  repulsion. 

But  Churchill  was  struggling  hard  to  beat  down  the  in- 
stinct. He  thought,  "This  is  purely  selfish,  and  must  be 
ignored,  then  forgotten.  Self  should  not  dare  to  obtrude 
itself.  What  I  am  attempting  is  for  her  sake,  not  for  my 
own;  and  if  I  am  to  succeed  I  must  gain  the  man's  con- 
fidence, establish  an  influence  by  more  or  less  binding  him 
to  me.  And  if  he  is  to  like  me,  I  must  like  him." 

Soon,  therefore,  Churchill  managed  to  control  merely 
personal  inclination  to  welcome  every  advance,  however 
tactless  or  unconventionally  familiar,  to  rejoice  quite  sin- 
cerely that  matters  so  far  had  worked  out  easily.  He  re- 
sponded to  a  mood  made  jovial  by  stimulants  in  which  he 
did  not  share.  He  gravely  and  courteously  smiled  at  com- 
monplace, often-quoted  jokes.  By  his  whole  manner,  if  not 
by  any  explicit  statements,  he  offered  Mr.  Vickers  his 
friendship. 

And  Vickers  seemed  to  accept  the  offer  freely,  indeed 
with  gratification.  When  it  was  suggested  that  he  might 
possibly  be  able  to  drop  in  of  an  evening  now  and  then  and 
smoke  his  cigar  or  pipe  at  Denmark  House,  he  said  he 
would  do  so  with  much  pleasure.  The  evening  often  hung 
heavy  on  his  hands. 

"But  I  say,"  he  said,  laughing,  "you  won't  mind  if  I 
bring  a  flask  of  whisky  in  my  pocket.  I  can't  plead  doctor's 
orders ;  but,  much  as  I  admire  teetotalism  as  a  theory,  I've 
never  been  able  to  practise  it  for  long  at  a  time." 

Churchill  courteously  assured  him  that  the  flask  would 
not  be  necessary.  He  would  be  careful  to  provide  some 
whisky. 

And  at  this  Vickers  slapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  "Yes, 
you're  a  sportsman.  Live  and  let  live,  eh?  You  and  I  will 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  207 

hit  it  off  together — I  can  see  that.  No  disrespect — but  you 
aren't  by  any  means  the  cut-and-dried  cleric.  'You  wear 
your  rue  with  a  difference.'  " 

They  were  in  the  little  hall  now,  and  Churchill,  as  he 
glanced  up  the  stairs,  wondered  if  Lilian  Vickers  was  with- 
in hearing.  No  doubt  she  was  up  there  in  a  cold,  fireless 
room,  meekly  waiting  for  her  master's  permission  to  creep 
down  and  again  enjoy  the  warmth  and  comfort  of  his  hearth. 

"Good-bye,  Churchill — or  au  revolr."  Vickers  stood  on 
the  threshold,  calling  after  him  cheerily.  "Turn  to  your 
left.  That  passage  to  your  right  would  take  you  into  my 
sheepfold — the  streets  where  my  lambs  are  to  be  found — > 
and  you  might  lose  your  way.  By-by." 

Churchill,  looking  back  just  before  he  turned  the  corner, 
directed  his  eyes  not  at  Vickers  and  the  front  door  but  at 
the  upper  floor.  He  fancied,  but  was  not  sure,  that  he  saw 
Lilian  at  one  of  the  windows, 


XXVI 

THE  first  evening  that  Vickers  came  to  Denmark  House 
he  stayed  about  three  hours,  and  they  seemed  to  Churchill 
three  years.  They  nearly  wore  out  his  patience. 

Vickers,  perhaps  a  little  because  of  a  mistaken  idea  of 
politeness  and  more  because  of  a  stupid  curiosity  about 
facts  which  in  no  way  concerned  him,  began  by  behaving 
as  if  he  had  been  a  reporter  and  Churchill  a  person  to  be 
conscientiously  interviewed  for  the  newspapers.  During 
one  of  those  three  hours  he  scarcely  for  a  moment  desisted 
from  asking  questions. 

"I  see  you  burn  a  wood  fire.  Where  do  you  get  your 
wood?" 

Churchill  told  him  that  he  had  got  it  from  a  well-known 
charitable  organisation. 

"What  do  they  make  you  give  for  it  ?" 

Churchill  told  him. 

"Thirty  per  cent,  above  market  price.  Oh,  I  know  Cur- 
tice's scheme  inside  out — to  help  the  unemployed — pinch  of 
winter — and  all  that.  It's  a  mistake.  But  you  believe  in 
this  direct  kind  of  assistance?" 

"Yes,  to  a  certain  extent." 

"You  aren't  afraid  of  pauperising  them?" 

"No.    Providence  has  done  that  for  them  already." 

"Now  look  here,  your  wood  was  brought  by  two  chaps 
— two  chaps,  weren't  there?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  paid  'em  what  they  asked;  you  gave  'em  the 
full  amount  written  down  on  the  Society's  invoice,  and 
perhaps  a  little  something  for  themselves  over  and  above? 
Isn't  that  so?" 

"Yes." 

"But  they  didn't  go  away  smiling  and  pleased.  No,  they 
began  to  whine  and  cadge.  I  put  it  to  you,  didn't  they 
ask  for  more?" 

"Er — yes,  I  don't  remember  whether  they  exactly  asked  ; 
but  I  did  give  them  something  else." 

208 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  209 

"Ha,  ha,"  and  Vickers  laughed,  truculently  triumphant. 
*7  know  my  gentleman.  What  did  you  give  them?" 

Churchill  confessed  that,  as  the  poor  fellows  were  un- 
questionably underclad,  standing  in  the  February  blast, 
themselves  hot  and  exhausted — two  weaklings  who  had 
pushed  the  laden  barrow  for  miles — he  gave  them  food  and 
a  couple  of  old  suits  of  clothes. 

"Suits  of  clothes!  By  Jupiter — that  was  doing  them 
proud.  Your  own  clothes?" 

"No — some  things  I  had  bought." 

"But  you  don't  buy  old  clothes,  do  you  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do  sometimes,"  and  Churchill  explained  that  he 
kept  a  wardrobe  modestly  stocked  against  such  emergencies. 

"No  wonder  they  say  you're  a  Croesus !  But  I  think  you 
mentioned  the  other  day  that  the  prevailing  idea  was 
erroneous  ?" 

"Yes,  altogether  so." 

"But  you  have  done  a  lot  here  in  the  way  of  outlay, 
haven't  you?" 

"I  have  put  my  drop  into  the  ocean." 

"This  house  belongs  to  you  ?" 

"Yes,  it  does  at  the  present  moment." 

"What,  are  you  leaving  ?    Going  to  part  with  the  house  ?" 

"No.  But  I  am  making  it  over  to  trustees  for  the 
parish." 

"Now  there  I  think  you're  wrong.  You'd  much  better 
remain  cock  of  your  own  castle.  Once  it's  theirs,  you'll  find 
they  won't  be  really  grateful.  You  hand  them  the  title 
deeds,  they  hand  you  an  illuminated  address — and  'Thank 
you,  Mr.  Churchill,  but  now  please  remember  that  we  are 
the  masters,  and  not  you.' " 

"I  have  great  confidence  in  our  vicar.  He  would  never 
treat  me  shabbily." 

Then  Mr.  Vickers  continued  his  examination  until  he  had 
satisfied  himself  as  to  all  the  principal  items  of  Churchill's 
expenditure  at  St.  Bede's.  He  approved  of  the  good  inten- 
tions displayed,  but  was  more  than  doubtful  as  to  ultimate 
results.  Then  he  harangued  in  a  gassy,  inconsecutive  style 
about  what  he  would  have  done  himself  had  he  been 
Churchill  and  with  Churchill's  funds  at  his  disposal.  This 
general  address  was  followed  by  a  noisily  enthusiastic 


210  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

sketch  of  the  great  Labor  Party  now  slowly  forming  itself. 
Then  he  wandered  about  the  room,  picked  up  and  swung  an 
Indian  club,  assuring  Churchill  that  once  upon  a  time  he 
had  been  "rather  useful"  in  the  athletic  line.  And  then  he 
settled  down  in  one  of  the  red-cushioned  wicker  chairs,  and 
devoted  himself  to  the  whisky  bottle  and  siphon  of  soda  on 
the  table  at  his  elbow. 

The  whisky  made  him  mellow,  confidential,  terrible;  and 
Churchill,  suffering  for  two  more  hours,  thought  off  and  on 
of  the  creature's  wife,  and  only  from  these  thoughts  derived 
courage  and  patience  to  support  the  ordeal. 

Lilian  had  sat  in  that  very  chair,  and  every  detail  of  the 
picture  she  had  made  could  be  vividly  recalled — her 
thoughtful  eyes  looking  at  him  appealingly,  her  hands  in 
the  well-worn  black  gloves,  the  slight  droop  of  her  neck — 
her  gracefulness,  her  gentleness,  the  spiritual  charm  of  her 
fragile  beauty.  What  a  contrast  to  the  picture  before  him 
now — the  gross,  self-indulgent  lout  who  possessed  but  did 
not  value  her!  Churchill  endeavoured  not  to  study  so  at- 
tentively the  fat  lobes  of  those  ears,  the  swollen  and  yet 
ceasing  flesh  of  the  chin — or  the  insolent  redness  and  stub- 
biness  of  the  moustache,  the  protruded  lips  and  the  dog-like 
teeth  that  were  rolling  and  chewing  the  oily  brown  stump 
of  a  cigar.  He  must  forget  himself.  He  must  think  only 
of  her — of  her ;  of  the  sweet,  refined,  unhappy  woman  that 
this  brute,  this  great  sweltering  hog,  had  the  inalienable 
right  to  fondle  and  caress. 

After  a  few  days  Vickers  came  again,  and  then  again. 
He  evidently  liked  coming ;  he  made  himself  more  and  more 
at  home;  and  he  was  utterly  odious:  familiar,  impudent, 
even  overbearing,  everything  beastly.  He  pounced  upon 
favourite  old  books  of  Churchill's,  twirled  their  leaves,  and 
tossed  them  away  contemptuously;  he  talked  philosophy; 
chattered  of  classical  literature,  mispronouncing  his  silly 
little  scraps  of  Latin  and  Greek;  but  believed  that  he  was 
"showing  off"  successfully.  He  said,  as  indeed  was  obvious, 
that  he  was  not  "a  'Varsity  man." 

"Is  it  any  good?  I  often  ask  myself  the  question — Have 
I  missed  anything?"  And  he  gave  his  platform  laugh. 
"Between  you  and  me  and  the  post,  I  don't  think  so." 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  211 

Churchill  hated  him.  It  was  wrong,  it  was  unchristian, 
it  was  inevitable.  But  he  had  begun  a  delicate,  difficult  task, 
and  he  intended  to  go  through  with  it  to  the  best  of  his 
ability.  On  this  third  evening  he  really  set  to  work.  He 
tackled  Vickers  about  the  evils  of  drink,  opening  his  attack 
on  the  broadest  possible  lines. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Vickers,  "I  myself  used  to  drink  too  much 
—sometimes." 

"You  do  still,  don't  you — sometimes  ?" 

Vickers  stared.  Then  he  said,  "Yes,  I  do,"  and  gave  one 
of  his  hateful  tirades — composed  of  hypocrisy,  vulgarity, 
bravado,  mock-heroics — very  difficult  to  listen  to  patiently 
and  answer  gently.  "I  make  no  secret,"  he  said  in  conclu- 
sion. "I'm  a  man — all  through — with  a  man's  faults.  I 
belong  to  the  Church — only  I  never  set  up  for  being  one  of 
its  saints.  But  I  came  for  a  smoke  and  chat — not  for  a 
sermon." 

"Sit  down.  Fill  your  pipe  again.  I  am  not  trying  to 
preach." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Vickers,  after  a  moment  or  two. 
"No,  you're  a  man  yourself.  You  can  understand.  We 
can't  all  be  perfect.  You  know,  some  of  these  curates — 
well,  I  think  they  must  have  had  an  operation  performed  to 
keep  them  mild  and  meek  for  the  rest  of  their  lives;"  and 
he  spat.  "Fellows  like  that  bleating  round  a  parish  don't 
do  any  good.  You're  not  that  sort;"  and  he  nodded  his 
head  towards  the  Indian  clubs,  and  the  little  college  trophies. 
"We're  both  of  us  men.  We  can  understand  each  other." 

"Then  as  between  men,  may  I  ask  a  question?" 

"Fire  ahead." 

"Can't  you  be  kinder  to  your  wife?" 

Vickers  sprang  from  the  chair,  his  eyes  glittering,  and  his 
cheeks  puffed  out  in  anger. 

"Don't  go.  Sit  down — smoke  your  pipe.  I  speak  in 
friendliness.  I  want  to  be  your  friend." 

But  Vickers  blustered  for  a  while.  He  said  he  could  not 
allow  any  one  to  come  between  him  and  his  wife.  She  was 
the  best  of  wives;  and  he  was  a  good  husband — all  that  a 
man  should  be. 

Presently,  however,  he  became  mollified,  resumed  his 
seat,  and,  helping  himself  to  more  whisky,  spoke  send- 


212  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

mentally,  "Poor  little  Lil !  I  beg  you  not  to  get  it  into  your 
head  that  I'm  not  fond  of  her.  Bless  her  heart,  of  course 
I  am.  Dear  little  Lil.  She's  had  a  roughish  time  of  it — but 
thafs  not  my  fault.  She  knows  I'm  always  ready  to  work 
till  I  burst." 

He  grew  maudlin  on  the  subject  later,  punishing  the 
whisky,  emptying  the  bottle. 

"Churchill,  do  you  admire  her?  Don't  mind  saying  No. 
Of  course  I  like  people  to  admire  her,  but  I  can't  jump 
down  their  throats  if  they  don't.  /  still  see  her  as  she  was — 
and  she's  nothing  to  what  she  was.  She  had  more  flesh  on 
her — bright  complexion — just  a  little  country  maid."  And 
he  went  on  about  her  charms  with  a  brutal  sort  of  relish — 
as  of  a  man  who  has  had  a  splendid  banquet  and  is  grateful, 
who  looks  back  on  his  feast  and  is  now  content  with  plain 
fare.  "She's  all  the  world  to  me  still — I  swear  it.  Never 
unfaithful  to  her  in  my  thoughts — but  a  man.  When 
tempted — well!  I've  told  you  fairly,  I'm  not  a  saint." 

He  did  not  appear  again  for  a  week,  and  then  his  man- 
ner showed  a  very  perceptible  change.  He  was  more  on  his 
guard;  the  joviality  was  altogether  forced;  and  in  repose 
his  face  had  a  surly  aspect.  He  did  not  stay  long,  and  when 
going  he  spoke  abruptly,  and  with  something  of  that  blus- 
tering tone  that  he  had  employed  once  before. 

"You  like  straight  talk,  Churchill.  If  you've  got  any- 
thing to  say,  you  say  it.  I'll  take  the  same  liberty;  for 
there's  something  I  wish  to  know." 

"What  is  it  you  wish  to  know?" 

"Are  you  trying  to  draw  my  wife  away  from  me?" 

"No.  I  am  trying  to  draw  your  wife  back  to  you.  You 
are  driving  her  away  yourself." 

"Has  she  been  doing  confessional  to  you?" 

"No.  I  have  given  her  advice.  Do  you  object  to  her 
coming  here?" 

"No.  Why  should  I?  I've  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of. 
No.  Go  on.  I  didn't  mean  anything  by  that.  You  gave 
her  advice?" 

"I  spoke  to  her  of  a  wife's  duty — she  knew  it.  But  duty 
is  not  all  on  one  side,  so  I  have  reminded  you  of  a  husband's 
duty." 

"But  was  this  a  put-up  job  between  you?" 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  213 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Why,  did  she  turn  you  loose  at  me — as  advocate  of 
women's  rights  in  general  and  hers  in  particular?" 

"No,  it  was  my  own  initiative.  She  knew  nothing  about 
it." 

"She  knows  now." 

"Being  aware  that  you  and  I  were  seeing  each  other,  she 
would  guess  that  I  might  speak  of  such  things.  Vickers,  I 
thought  you  would  take  it  from  me  in  a  friendly  spirit. 
I  thought  I  could  not  do  harm — because  your  treatment  of 
her  is  common  talk." 

"Is  it?"  And  Vickers  cursed  all  busybodies  and  slander- 
ers. "If  I  catch  any  one  who  has  been  cackling  slander 
about  me  I'll  make  him  sorry  he  didn't  think  twice  before 
he  began  that  game."  Then  he  pulled  himself  together  and 
vaguely  indicated  an  apology  for  violent  language  in  the 
presence  of  a  clergyman.  "You  can  make  allowances — • 
naturally  I  felt  strongly.  Anyhow,  you've  given  me  a 
direct  answer.  There  was  no  little  plot  hatched  between 
you  for  clerical  interference.  All  right,  Churchill.  I  be- 
lieve you.  You're  straight  enough.  But  something  is  up- 
setting her.  She's  always  fretful  and  complaining;"  and 
he  continued  grumblingly.  "What  does  she  want?  No 
one  can  say  I  don't  work.  I  can't  coin  money,  and  give 
her  a  carriage  and  a  pair  of  her  own  instead  of  the  omni- 
bus." 

"No,  you  can't  do  that!  but  there  are  other  things  you 
could  do."  And  Churchill  spoke  with  emotion  of  the  sanc- 
tity of  marriage  and  the  meaning  of  its  vows.  It  was  not 
enough  to  love  a  wife,  if  one  insulted  her  by  occasional 
preferences  for  chance  female  companions.  Wives  wanted 
more  than  mere  food  and  shelter.  Women's  nature  de- 
manded and  could  not  safely  be  deprived  of  kindness, 
tenderness,  sympathy. 

"Yes,"  said  Vickers,  with  a  very  unmirthful  laugh;  "but 
you're  a  bachelor.  I  don't  deny  a  word  that  you've  said 
about  married  life.  I  merely  remark  you've  never  tried  it 
yourself." 

"No,  but  I  think  that  the  conditions  under  which  you 
have  tried  it  have  not  been  difficult." 

Vickers  came  only  once  again,  and  then  it  was  but  to  say 


214  THE  MIRROR  AND;  THE  LAMP 

that  his  engagements  would  not  permit  him  to  stop  for 
more  than  five  minutes.  During  the  five  minutes  they  talked 
on  indifferent  topics ;  and  Churchill  had  the  feeling  that  this 
last  visit  was  made  from  motives  of  politeness  or  policy. 
Vickers  desired  to  show  that  their  recent  intimate  conversa- 
tions had  not  spoilt  the  progress  of  a  ripening  friendship. 
He  had  taken  Churchill's  domestic  hints  in  a  jolly  spirit ;  he 
had  not  been  offended ;  and  not  a  drop  of  bad  blood  was  left 
between  them. 

Next  day  or  the  day  after  Churchill  received  a  brief  note 
from  Lilian  Vickers,  in  which  she  thanked  him  for  the  ex- 
traordinarily kind  effort  that  he  had  been  making  on  her 
behalf.  She  said  that  she  would  never  forget  his  kindness, 
but  as  she  added  no  expressions  of  hopefulness  as  to  the 
future,  he  understood  that  the  whole  attempt  had  been  a 
failure. 

Except  in  St.  Bede's  church  he  did  not  see  her  again  for 
some  time.  He  was  touched  by  the  fact  that  she  came  there 
on  nearly  every  occasion  that  he  was  to  preach;  for  from 
Mrs.  Walsden  he  learned  how,  in  spite  of  all  difficulties,  she 
endeavoured  not  to  miss  a  single  one  of  his  sermons.  As  he 
went  into  the  pulpit  he  thought  of  her  courage,  endurance, 
and  abiding  sadness;  and  he  often  modified  what  he  had 
intended  to  say,  abandoned  the  plan  of  his  notes,  preached 
as  it  were  especially  to  her,  trying  to  send  her  a  plain  mes- 
sage of  comfort,  even  though  it  should  be  enigmatical  to 
all  others. 

It  had  become  a  haunting  idea  with  him  that  people's 
faith  needed  constant  reinforcement,  lest  of  a  sudden  it 
should  desert  them.  Nowadays,  when  Philbrick  and  other 
of  Walsden's  humble  converts  asked  their  startingly  naive 
questions  on  points  of  belief,  he  took  immense  trouble  in 
framing  his  answers.  He  would  seek  out  such  questioners 
again,  and  strive  further  to  fortify  them.  "When  you 
spoke  to  me  yesterday,  did  my  reply  make  everything  clear 
to  you?  If  not,  don't  hesitate  to  ask  me  other  questions. 
You  know,  we  are  not  called  upon  always  to  understand. 
We  must  believe.  But  the  belief  itself  is  so  easy  to  explain. 
It  is  entirely  my  fault,  if  I  left  any  doubt  in  your  mind." 
He  felt  that,  with  the  staunchest  of  them,  there  was  always 
the  terrible  danger  of  losing  heart  when  trouble  or  sorrow 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  21S 

forced  them  to  a  recognition  of  the  world-wide  incongruity 
between  purposeless  pain  and  beneficent  design.  This  was 
the  growing  fear  that  he  felt  in  regard  to  everybody,  but  it 
centralised  itself  and  was  strongest  when  he  brooded  on 
the  case  of  Lilian  Vickers. 

He  would  have  liked  to  be  with  her  every  day,  stimulating 
her  faith  from  hour  to  hour,  clothing  her  in  a  ghostly 
armour  that  nothing  material  could  ever  pierce.  But  since 
she  had  ceased  to  come  to  him  for  help,  he  could  scarcely  go 
unasked  to  offer  it. 

He  hoped  that  perhaps,  after  all,  he  had  influenced  her 
jailer,  and  that  life  within  the  prison  walls  was  not  so  unen- 
durable as  of  old. 

It  was  a  hope  that  he  could  not  long  enjoy. 

At  dusk  one  evening  towards  the  end  of  March  when  he 
returned  to  Denmark  House,  Mrs.  Clough  told  him  that  a 
lady  was  waiting  for  him  upstairs.  He  guessed  at  once  who 
it  was  that  he  would  find  in  the  twilight  of  the  back  room. 
They  sat  together  while  the  darkness  deepened  round  them ; 
and,  sobbing  and  wringing  her  hands,  she  told  him  the  brutal 
truth  that  till  now  she  had  kept  back.  The  man  knocked  her 
about.  Quite  soon  after  marriage  she  had  felt  the  weight 
of  his  hand.  He  had  fits  of  semi-drunken  fury  during  which 
she  was  never  safe  from  blows.  After  such  outrages  he 
seemed  sorry,  ashamed  of  himself,  and  promised  that  they 
should  never  be  repeated.  But  he  broke  all  promises.  The 
vile  ill-usage  recommenced;  it  happened  again  and  again; 
it  had  happened  to-day,  and  she  could  not  go  on  supporting 
it. 

And  to  Edward  Churchill  it  was  as  if  for  the  first  time  in 
his  existence  he  had  heard  of  a  husband  beating  a  wife,  as 
if  the  outrage  had  never  been  committed  before  in  the  whole 
history  of  human  kind.  He  blazed  with  anger,  he  turned 
faint  with  disgust ;  he  throbbed  and  ached  and  trembled. 

He  wanted  to  go  straight  to  the  man,  tell  him  he  had  learnt 
the  full  extent  of  his  villainy,  and  dare  him  ever  to  touch  her 
again;  but  he  knew  really  that  this  was  impossible,  even 
before  she  herself  said  so.  Any  further  direct  interference 
on  his  part  would  injure  her  and  not  benefit  her. 

Then,  still  sobbing,  she  told  him  once  more  that  she  had 
reached  the  end  of  her  strength.  She  must  free  herself  from 


216  THE  MIRROR  AND.  THE  LAMP 

this  life  of  torment.  She  had  no  money,  she  could  get  no 
money ;  so  an  action  for  divorce  was  out  of  the  question.  But 
she  meant  to  divorce  herself  by  running  away,  by  hiding  in 
some  remote  part  of  England  where  she  could  live  under 
another  name,  work  for  daily  bread,  perhaps  obtain  some- 
thing that  approached  to  happiness — and  she  wanted 
Churchill  to  tell  her  that  as  a  Christian  woman  she  was 
justified  in  thus  breaking  the  marriage  bond. 

Edward  Churchill  fell  silent.  His  heart  was  beating  fast, 
the  blood  throbbed  in  the  veins  of  his  forehead,  his  whole 
head  seemed  on  fire.  What  was  he  to  say  ?  He  got  up  and 
walked  about  the  room,  turning  on  the  electric  light  at  each 
switch  that  he  passed. 

"I  am  thinking,"  he  said,  without  looking  at  her.  "I  am 
endeavouring  to  think." 

Would  she  not  be  justified?  Slowly  he  recovered  self- 
composure.  Mechanically  his  brain  was  working  in  its  accus- 
tomed manner;  the  thoughts,  like  obedient  streams,  flowed 
along  the  deep  channels  that  habit  had  formed  for  them ;  the 
storm  of  emotion,  fierce  as  it  was,  could  not  smash  the  dykes 
and  make  a  wild,  ungoverned  flood  where  for  so  many  years 
all  had  been  peaceful  order. 

He  looked  at  her  now.  The  light  shone  brightly  on  her 
tear-stained  face,  her  drooping  arms,  and  her  limp  hands. 
Darkness  and  light — we  must  not  fear  the  darkness ;  we  must 
turn  our  eyes  to  the  light.  And  looking  at  her  and  thinking 
of  her  his  pity  was  like  physical  fatigue.  It  made  him  feel 
numb,  dull,  like  a  man  who  has  overtired  himself  and  imper- 
atively needs  rest.  There  was  none  of  that  contentment 
after  extreme  effort  experienced  by  him  when  he  pitied  and 
laboured  for  those  boys  in  the  boat.  But  he  now  knew  what 
he  ought  to  say  to  her,  what  he  must  necessarily  say  to  her, 
if  he  would  keep  true  to  his  character  as  a  priest. 

He  said  it  dully,  yet  with  convincing  firmness.  As  a 
Christian  she  must  bear  her  cross.  Divorce  courts  possessed 
no  real  power  to  set  her  free ;  those  whom  God  has  joined 
together  no  man  can  sunder.  Marriage  is  a  sacrament,  and 
its  effective  term  is  till  death.  In  that  sacrament  all  is 
promised,  and  all  must  be  given.  Nor  may  we  fly  and  hide 
from  pain  that  God  has  ordained  we  are  patiently  to  bear. 
He  who  could  have  evaded  the  slightest  touch  of  pain 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  217 

accepted  its  bitterest  pangs.  That  was  a  lesson,  an  example, 
and  a  promise. 

He  told  her  that  earthly  grief  and  earthly  joy  are  alike  so 
small  and  trivial  that  soon  they  are  utterly  forgotten;  the 
greatness,  the  wonder,  the  ineffable  bliss  that  are  surely 
coming  should  make  the  happiest  life,  even  in  the  spending 
of  it,  seem  merely  a  delay  or  hindrance,  and  the  cruellest, 
longest  life  less  dreadful  than  a  rapid,  troubled  dream. 

"So  be  brave,  my  sister,"  and  he  held  his  hand  above  her 
head.  "Follow  in  Christ's  footsteps,  and  suffer  for  His 
sake." 

"I'll  try,"  she  said  at  last.  "Yes,  I'll  go  on  trying;" 
and  meekly  and  sadly  she  went  away. 

He  did  not  close  his  eyes  throughout  the  night.  Thoughts 
of  Lilian  Vickers  made  a  long,  waking  nightmare  of  the 
hours.  He  had  done  nothing  for  her.  In  sight  of  such  tears 
as  would  melt  a  heart  of  stone,  he  had  been  impotently  di- 
dactic, preaching  instead  of  protecting,  thrilling  with  indig- 
nation and  then  sending  her  back  to  blows. 

On  the  following  afternoon  he  went  to  St.  Ursula's 
rectory,  determined  to  enlist  Mrs.  Verschoyle's  sympathy, 
and  confident  that  now  there  would  no  longer  be  any  diffi- 
culty in  doing  so. 

Mrs.  Verschoyle  was  in  the  garden  behind  the  house,  busy 
with  strings  and  feathers  that  she  was  setting  up  across  a 
bed  of  crocuses  to  guard  them  from  the  ravages  of  sparrows 
or  cats.  She  showed  Churchill  the  first  purple  and  white 
blossoms,  began  to  talk  about  the  lilac  bushes  which  already 
had  green  buds,  and  asked  how  the  famous  plane  tree  was 
looking  after  all  the  trials  of  winter.  But  Churchill  could 
talk  of  nothing  except  Lilian  Vickers.  "You  know,"  he  said 
eagerly,  "that  poor  woman — Mrs.  Vickers.  I  have  more  to 
tell  you.  I  want  to  tell  you  much  more." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Verschoyle,  without  the  least  en- 
thusiasm. "Then  we  had  better  go  indoors;"  and  after  a 
regretful  glance  at  the  strings  and  feathers,  she  led  the  way 
back  to  the  house  and  into  her  pretty  drawing-room. 

Here,  Edward  Churchill  walked  to  and  fro,  waved  his 
arms,  stood  before  her,  sat  on  the  sofa  by  her  side,  jumped 
up  and  sat  down  again,  while  he  excitedly  spoke  of  the  poor 


218  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

victim  who  now  occupied  all  his  mind.  What  was  to  be  done 
for  her?  He  fully  explained  his  fear  lest  the  abominable 
injustice  of  fate  should  eventually  shake  her  faith ;  and  Mrs. 
Verschoyle  sat  quite  still  on  the  sofa,  listening  to  his  words, 
watching  his  face,  and  once  or  twice,  although  he  did  not 
notice  it,  looking  quite  distinctly  bored. 

But  when  he  suggested  that  he  should  bring  Mrs.  Vickers 
to  the  rectory,  and  as  it  were  solemnly  place  her  in  charge  of 
the  rector's  wife,  all  signs  of  ennui  immediately  disappeared. 
She  spoke  kindly,  but  in  a  brisk  businesslike  tone,  and  gave 
Churchill  at  least  six  excellently  valid  reasons  why  his  sug- 
gestion was  one  that  could  not  be  adopted.  She  was  thor- 
oughly interested  at  last,  and  indeed  from  now  to  the  end  of 
the  interview  her  interest  was  always  increasing.  She 
watched  Churchill  far  more  closely  than  before,  and  every 
minute  the  tone  of  her  voice  became  kinder  and  the  expres- 
sion of  her  face  more  meditative. 

"This  is  all  very  difficult,  Christian,"  she  said,  gently  and 
soothingly.  "What  sort  of  a  woman  is  she — I  mean  in  her 
general  life?" 

"She  is  as  good  as  gold — patient  and  sweet." 

"Yes.    What  aged  woman  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  very  young.  I  should  think  about 
twenty-two— or  twenty-three." 

"So  young  as  that !    Is  she  pretty  ?''" 

"I  think  her  very  pretty — but  I  don't  know  if  everybody 
would  think  her  so.  She's  extraordinarily  graceful — and  her 
voice  is  quite  beautiful.  That  I'm  sure  any  one  would  say." 

"Describe  her  so  that  I  can  imagine  what  she  is  like. 
Tall?" 

"Yes,  fairly  tall." 

"Dark?" 

"No."  And  assuring  Mrs.  Verschoyle  that  his  word- 
picture  would  give  but  the  feeblest,  vaguest  ideas,  he  at- 
temped  a  description.  "She's  the  sort  of  person  you  don't 
notice  much  at  first,  but  who  quickly  grows  on  you.  All  I 
noticed — at  the  very  first — was  her  voice.  She  is  slender 
and  pale — scarcely  any  colour  in  her  face ;  her  nose  is  rather 
large,  but  quite  straight  and  thin ;  I  suppose  you  would  call 
her  eyes  grey — they're  nothing,  but  they  are  full  of  thought. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  219 

Yes,  I  forgot  that.  It  was  the  second  thing  I  noticed — the 
thought  fulness  of  her  eyes." 

Mrs.  Verschoyle  smiled.  "I  wonder  what  you  mean  by 
thoughtful  eyes.  Artists  say  there's  no  expression  in  the 
eyes  themselves." 

"I  don't  believe  it.  Anyhow,  I  mean  the  effect  produced. 
When  she  looks  at  one,  one  feels  the  thought  behind  the  eyes, 
and  if  one  does  not  read  it,  one  knows  that  it  is  good  and 
pure." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Verschoyle  quietly,  "all  that  you  say 
helps  me  to  imagine  her — and  it  makes  me  very  sorry  for 
her.  Only" — and  she  hesitated — "only,  Christian,  you  have 
done  all  you  can  for  her.  You  cannot  do  any  more." 

"I  have  done  nothing.  And,  at  least,  can't  you  do  any- 
thing?" 

"No,  really  and  truly,  I  can't  do  anything  either." 

"You'll  disappoint  me  grievously  if  you  will  not  even  try." 

"Christian" — she  had  got  up  from  the  sofa,  and  she  put 
her  hand  upon  his  arm — "you  mustn't  think  me  wanting  in 
proper  feeling.  Believe  me,  I  am  very  sorry  for  her.  But 
all  this  that  seems  so  monstrous  to  you  is  the  fate  of  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  women "  and  she  opened  her 

arms  in  a  wide,  comprehensive  gesture.  "At  this  moment — 
all  round  us — to  north,  east,  south,  and  west — -women  are 
weeping  because  men  are  cruel." 


XXVII 

THE  first  week  of  April  brought  a  little  warmth  and  sun- 
shine, but  Edward  Churchill  could  take  no  personal  pleasure 
in  the  signs  of  advancing  spring.  For  the  sake  of  others  he 
was  glad  that  the  hard  time  had  passed,  but  for  himself 
nothing  mattered.  He  felt  listless,  wretched,  with  so  strange 
a  decrease  of  his  natural  energy  that  the  temptation  to  shirk 
the  full  round  of  each  day's  work  became  almost  irresistible. 

Then  a  chance  put  him  into  contact  with  Lilian  Vickers 
again,  and  the  slight  relief  of  mind  that  he  thereby  obtained 
served  immediately  to  restore  his  confidence  and  power. 
There  had  been  no  recurrence  of  that  unspeakable  wicked- 
ness, and  she  spoke  with  hope  of  the  future.  She  was  show- 
ing a  splendid  courage;  she  had  read,  and  benefited  by 
reading,  some  books  he  had  sent  her;  she  meant  to  follow 
the  narrow,  difficult  path  that  eventually  must  lead  upwards 
to  the  sunlit  heights.  Moreover,  she  was  now  enjoying 
respites  from  the  possibility  of  persecution.  Her  husband 
was  away  on  a  political  campaign,  a  tour  of  oratory  in  the 
north  of  England ;  and  when  he  came  back  he  would  go  away 
again  to  begin  a  similar  tour  in  the  south.  He  would  be  much 
away  from  home  until  the  middle  of  June. 

Chance,  the  unaided  hazard  of  the  streets,  gave  Edward 
Churchill  this  long,  pleasant,  reassuring  talk  with  her;  but 
after  that  lucky  encounter  he  began  to  meet  her  designedly. 
He  asked  for  no  appointment,  and  he  did  not  invite  her  to 
Denmark  House.  He  knew  now,  more  or  less  exactly,  the 
usual  programme  of  her  week's  labours ;  so  that  in  imagina- 
tion he  could  trace  her  movements  about  the  labyrinth, 
thinking  of  her  at  particular  hours  as  she  passed  along  a 
street  miles  and  miles  away,  or  drew  nearer  to  him  in  a 
swiftly-gliding  tram.  Eleven  o'clock — she  was  going  to 
those  grocery  stores  at  Poplar  to  give  the  grocer's  little  girls 
their  music  lesson.  Twelve-thirty — she  was  on  her  way  to 
Shoreditch  for  a  lesson  in  French.  Early  in  the  afternoon  on 
three  days  a  week  the  tram  brought  her  right  through  St. 

220 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  221 

Bede's  and  half  a  mile  westwards,  for  two  hours  at  a  Jewish 
school  close  by  the  Commercial  Road.  He  could  find  her 
easily  on  those  days — either  going  or  returning. 

One  bright  afternoon — the  brightest  that  as  yet  had  come 
— he  was  standing  on  the  pavement  when  she  got  out  of  her 
tram,  and  he  walked  with  her  round  the  corner  and  for  the 
two  or  three  hundred  yards  that  still  separated  her  from  the 
Jewish  school.  He  wished  that  the  distance  had  been  greater 
so  that  the  walk  might  have  lasted  longer,  and  at  the  school 
door  he  offered  to  come  back  after  her  two  hours'  work  and 
escort  her  all  the  way  home.  But  this  offer  she  refused ;  she 
could  not  think  of  so  troubling  him,  and  quite  unnecessarily. 

"I  should  like  to,  if  you  would  let  me,"  he  said  simply. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said,  "you're  very  kind ;  but  really  I  couldn't 
let  you  waste  your  time.  I  know  very  well  how  busy  you 
always  are." 

"I  don't  think  I  have  anything  particular  to  do  to-day," 
he  said,  rather  vaguely.  "And  it's  so  fine." 

"Yes,  isn't  it?  But  I  am  not  quite  sure  whether  I  shall 
go  home  when  I  leave  here.  There's  a  call  that  perhaps  I 
ought  to  make — yes,"  and  she  looked  at  him.  "But  thank 
you  very  much  for  thinking  of  it.  Good-bye." 

"Good-bye." 

He  returned  to  Denmark  House,  and  sat  down  to  read. 
His  idea  of  taking  leisure  for  the  purpose  of  going  out  east- 
ward with  her  had  driven  away  all  inclination  to  occupy  the 
afternoon  in  an  ordinary  manner.  It  had  given  him  that 
peculiar,  unsettling,  holiday  feeling  which  is  apt  to  attack 
the  steadiest  workers  when  once  they  have  decided  on  an 
interruption  of  work.  After  an  hour  he  found  it  impossible 
even  to  read. 

He  looked  at  his  watch,  and  thought,  "In  thirty-five 
minutes  she  will  have  finished  with  that  class."  A  little 
later  he  thought,  "She  will  soon  leave  the  building;  but  if  I 
started  now  there  would  be  still  just  time.  Yes,  if  I  went 
now  I  should  see  her." 

He  snatched  his  hat,  ran  downstairs,  and  hurried  through 
the  streets. 

All  the  Jewish  children  were  trooping  out  of  the  school 
doors ;  and  she,  when  she  came,  looked  neither  to  the  right 
nor  to  the  left.  He  fancied  that  she  walked  slowly,  that  her 


222  THE  MIRROR  AND.  THE  LAMP, 

whole  aspect  suggested  weariness,  and  he  saw  that  her  face 
was  white  and  grave  and  sad.  But  when  he  stepped  forward 
and  spoke  to  her  she  was  pleased  that  he  had  come  back.  One 
could  not  doubt  it.  She  showed  that  little  flush  of  surprise, 
fading  again  directly,  and  then  her  face  was  full  of  quiet 
pleasure  and  contentment. 

They  went  away  together  in  the  tram,  and  when  they 
alighted  near  her  home  she  consented  to  go  for  a  ride  with 
him  outside  an  omnibus — simply  and  solely  for  the  treat  of 
remaining  out  in  the  pleasant  air.  They  went  as  far  as  the 
omnibus  would  take  them,  then  straight  back  on  another 
omnibus;  and  all  the  way  to  and  fro  they  were  talking 
merely  of  the  things  they  passed — the  gradient  of  the  bridge 
across  the  water,  the  excavations  for  the  new  tunnel,  the 
steamships  in  the  East  India  Docks — but  rejoicing  because 
of  this  rest  in  the  midst  of  motion,  forgetting  trouble  and 
care,  feeling  as  unconstrained  and  satisfied  in  each  other's 
company  as  though  they  were  life-long  friends,  cousins  who 
had  shared  the  same  nursery,  or  a  brother  and  sister  come 
together  after  many  years. 

The  sun  was  down,  but  the  sky  still  lit  with  golden  flame, 
when  he  left  her  at  the  door  with  those  ugly  brass  plates  that 
bore  her  husband's  name.  The  house  looked  dark  and  cold 
after  the  door  had  closed  upon  her;  a  sinister,  ominous 
dwelling,  made  more  prison-like  by  the  blank  dreariness  of 
the  wooden  hoarding  on  one  side  and  the  high  brick  wall  on 
the  other. 

But  Churchill  walked  away  briskly,  his  mind  at  peace, 
indeed  with  cheerful,  hopeful  thoughts  in  it.  He  had  loved 
his  little  outing,  and  was  well  satisfied  now  with  the  whole 
afternoon. 

He  met  her,  then,  as  often  as  he  could  manage  to  do  so. 
And  the  days  he  saw  her  were  full,  and  all  other  days  were 
empty. 

He  knew  her  engagements  on  ordinary  days,  but  he  had 
never  inquired  if  she  worked  at  all  at  her  teaching  on  Satur- 
day afternoons.  He  supposed  not:  she  would  probably 
remain  at  home,  sewing,  making  her  cloth  jackets  and  serge 
skirts,  putting  new  flowers  on  an  old  hat,  or  perhaps  even 
scrubbing  and  cleaning  the  house.  He  thought  of  this  one 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  223 

Saturday  as  he  strolled  along  the  main  thoroughfare  after  his 
frugal  mid-day  meal. 

The  week-end  festival  was  beginning;  the  barrows  and 
stalls  had  taken  up  their  positions,  all  wagons  and  carts  had 
disappeared,  only  the  crowded  trams  and  buses  rolled  by  in 
a  narrowed  fair-way,  and  the  broad  pavements  were 
thronged  from  the  kerb  to  the  shop  fronts.  He  thought, 
"Suppose  she  happened  to  come  this  way."  In  imagination 
he  could  instantaneously  see  her.  He  would  recognise  her 
at  a  considerable  distance — just  somebody  taller  than  other 
people,  somebody  different;  then,  as  she  threaded  her  way 
through  the  crowd,  the  strikingly  individual  characteristics 
would  become  evident — her  slimness,  the  neat  costume,  that 
pretty,  soft,  flowing  neck-scarf ;  and  then  his  eyes  would  be 
charmed  and  his  tender  pity  stirred  by  the  full  close  vision 
of  her  herself.  And  at  that  final  moment,  no  matter  how 
dense  the  crowd,  she  would  seem  to  be  walking  or  standing 
quite  alone,  a  creature  from  another  world  crowned  with  a 
spiritual  loveliness  that  is  not,  that  cannot  be,  describable  in 
common  terms. 

But  she  did  not  come.  No  happy  unexpected  chance  had 
set  her  footsteps  westwards.  She  was  sitting  behind  closed 
doors  in  that  far-off  house.  Then,  strong  and  definite,  came 
the  wish  to  go  right  out  there  at  once  to  see  her.  Yes,  why 
not?  That  was  what  he  would  do.  But  then  he  had  a 
sudden  revulsion  of  mind,  so  that  within  a  moment  of  time 
the  wish  was  completely  frustrated,  if  not  destroyed.  Utterly 
impossible.  What  would  she  say  of  such  an  extraordinary 
proceeding?  What  would  she  think? 

He  walked  on  in  the  same  direction — eastwards,  meaning 
to  turn  off  presently  to  the  river,  or  perhaps  go  as  far  as 
St.  Ursula's  rectory  and  call  upon  Mrs.  Verschoyle.  She  had 
written  reproaching  him  for  recent  neglect  and  begging  him 
to  come.  He  might  look  in  on  her  now.  But  then  he  under- 
stood that  he  could  not  be  bothered  to  do  it.  He  still  felt  a 
slight  bitterness  or  indignation  against  Mrs.  Verschoyle.  He 
had  been  forced  to  readjust  his  established  estimates  both  of 
her  nature  and  her  intelligence.  She  was  so  good — but  with 
such  limitations.  If  she  had  comprehended  the  essential,  the 
pressing  needs  of  the  case,  she  would  have  made  friends  with 
Lilian  Vickers ;  and  he  might  now  have  been  going  to  meet 


224 

Lilian  Vickers  at  the  rectory,  quite  naturally.  Under  those 
conditions  Lilian  could  not  have  thought  it  odd. 

Then  he  had  another  revulsion  of  mind.  She  would  never 
think  such  nonsense,  anywhere  or  at  any  time.  If  he  went 
to  see  her  now,  it  would  seem  to  her  perfectly  natural.  He 
quickened  his  pace,  crossed  the  road,  and  jumped  upon  the 
foot-board  of  a  moving  tram. 

It  being  Saturday  afternoon,  those  new  streets  were  full  of 
people,  women  talking  in  groups,  children  playing,  and  men 
in  shirt-sleeves  on  the  doorsteps — among  them,  no  doubt, 
many  members  of  Vickers's  union ;  but  when  Churchill  went 
through  the  little  passage  it  was  like  passing  into  a  small 
backwater  of  life,  and  not  a  soul  any  longer  observed  his 
movements.  Yet  he  had  a  queer  and  of  course  baseless  fancy 
that  he  was  still  being  watched,  that  there  were  people  in 
hiding,  waiting  to  see  what  he  would  do,  peeping  through 
chinks  of  the  wooden  hoarding  or  furtively  peering  over  the 
brick  wall.  Not  a  gleam  of  sunlight  fell  upon  the  house 
itself;  the  front  was  all  in  shadow;  and  it  looked  dark, 
wicked,  mysterious.  He  hesitated;  then  went  to  the  door, 
rang  gently,  and  knocked  lightly. 

No  one  came  to  the  door.  Dead  silence.  His  heart  sank. 
She  was  not  at  home.  He  rang  again  and  again,  as  loudly  as 
he  could,  and  presently  he  believed  that  he  heard  sounds 
within.  If  so,  they  were  sounds  made  by  that  old  crone  of  a 
servant;  and  he  battered  with  the  knocker  as  though  he 
wanted  to  smash  the  door.  At  last  the  old  woman  opened 
the  door,  and  looked  out  suspiciously  until  she  saw  his  black 
clothes  and  Roman  collar. 

"Er— is  Mr.  Vickers  in?" 

"No." 

"Nor  Mrs.  Vickers?" 

"No — she  went  out  ten  minutes  ago." 

"Do  you  know  where  she  has  gone?  Or  when  she  is 
coming  back  ?"  And  he  was  aware  that  he  flushed  while  he 
spoke. 

"You  might  find  her  at  the  Poplar  Institoot,"  said  the  old 
woman.  "She  does  go  there  Saturdays,  and  she  had  her 
leather  case  along  with  her."  And  then  the  old  woman, 
becoming  interested  and  officious,  made  many  suggestions. 


,THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  22S 

"If  you  want  to  find  her  particular,  try  the  Institoot  first. 
If  she  isn't  there,  go  on  to  the  Carnegie  Free  Library.  She 
fetches  her  books  there.  Or,  stop  a  minute,  she  might  be 
at  Price's  Stores.  If  not,  you  may  be  sure,  she's  gone  on 
the  tram,  and  I  couldn't  tell  you  where  she  mightn't  be. 
Church,  p'raps.  She'll  go  right  off  to  St.  Bede's  sometimes 
for  the  church  services." 

He  went  away  feeling  guilty.  He  hardly  knew  why,  but 
he  knew  that  he  was  ashamed  of  himself.  And  it  was  a 
sensation  that  he  must  get  rid  of.  He  said  to  himself,  "I  am 
glad  she  was  not  there ;  and  I  certainly  will  not  follow  her 
to  the  Institute  or  the  Library.  I  must  go  straight  home  and 
think  about  all  this." 

But  once  more  there  came  that  violent  revulsion  of 
thought.  It  was  like  an  interference  by  an  external  force,  an 
arrest,  a  shock,  and  a  reversal :  as  though  his  brain  had  been 
a  machine  hard  at  work  as  usual,  until  with  foolish  abrupt- 
ness its  driving  power  was  shut  off,  its  gear  altered,  and  the 
power  turned  on  again — to  send  every  wheel  and  band  spin- 
ning in  an  opposite  direction.  What  a  moment  ago  he  had 
considered  advisable  he  now  felt  to  be  altogether  wrong. 

It  seemed  that  something  of  great 'seriousness  was  happen- 
ing, so  far  as  he  was  concerned ;  and  that  he  must  deal  with 
himself  sternly  and  boldly,  and  not  timorously.  He  thought, 
"The  sooner  I  find  her  the  better.  Directly  I  am  with  her, 
it  will  all  be  over.  Just  the  sight  of  her  will  conquer  the 
sentimental  self-conscious  nonsense.  Whereas  if  I  go  and 
hide  and  think,  everything  will  begin  again.  This  won't  bear 
thinking  over;  the  less  I  think  about  it  the  better." 

He  went  fast  from  place  to  place,  thinking  no  more,  only 
knowing  that  he  wanted  to  find  her,  and  feeling  sick  with 
disappointment  when  he  could  not  do  so.  She  had  been 
at  the  Institute,  but  was  gone.  At  the  Library  he  was  advised 
to  go  to  a  school  in  Limehouse.  At  Limehouse  they  sent  him 
back  to  Poplar.  He  spent  the  afternoon  in  a  fruitless  pur- 
suit. 

When  he  fell  asleep  that  night  he  dreamed  of  her.  The 
dream  was  a  reflection  of  the  afternoon's  pursuit.  He  was 
always  near  her,  yet  always  prevented  by  vague  obstacles 
from  getting  quite  close  to  her ;  he  yearned  and  strove,  pour- 


226  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

ing  out  waves  of  will  power  to  sweep  away  each  indefinite 
barrier  of  difficulty;  and  at  last,  as  rarely  happens  in  such 
dreams  of  frustrated  effort,  he  came  up  with  her,  took  her 
hand  in  his;  and  side  by  side  they  walked  on,  floated  on, 
swam  through  space,  in  ethereal  joy.  The  contact  seemed 
to  spiritualise  his  whole  frame;  it  was  a  taste  of  ecstatic, 
heavenly,  pure  delight ;  and  then  he  woke. 
And  he  went  to  sleep  longing  to  dream  again. 


XXVIII 

IN  the  morning  he  felt  tired  and  heavy,  and  his  first  clear 
thought  was,  "Then  this  is  sin." 

"Sin  has  come  into  my  life,  and  the  real  battle  now  begins." 
Happily,  it  would  be  a  battle  unshared  by  her.  The  battle- 
field was  one  man's  mind.  And  he  made  his  vows :  to  fight 
and  conquer.  He  did  not  pray,  did  not  even  think  of  praying ; 
but  he  summoned  all  his  brain  power.  Let  self  conquer  self. 

He  made  plans  for  the  immediate  future.  He  must  avoid 
her,  of  course.  He  must  occupy  his  mind  continuously;  for, 
as  he  had  proved,  bodily  fatigue  was  not  enough. 

Meditating  on  the  events  of  the  last  year,  his  many  dis- 
tressful hours,  his  great  sadness  or  depression  of  spirit,  he 
believed  that  he  could  trace  a  steadily  weakening  process,  and 
also  that  he  could  recognise  various  warnings  or  premoni- 
tions of  a  danger  that  every  day  had  drawn  a  little  nearer. 
Looking  back  thus,  he  thought,  "Yes,  that  sense  of  lessened 
sunshine,  the  twilight  at  high  noon,  the  darkness  that  I 
seemed  to  fear,  was  the  shadow  of  approaching  sin." 

Then,  before  the  day  was  over,  he  thought,  But  why  is  it 
sin?  I  have  done  nothing.  I  am  not  going  to  do  anything. 
It  is  not  even  a  temptation.  Only  she  could  tempt  me,  and 
she  will  never  even  know.  It  is  just  a  thought. 

"But  it  is  an  evil  thought.  She  is  another  man's  wife. 
Therefore  I  may  not  think  of  her." 

Yet  his  thoughts  of  her  hitherto  had  been  so  entirely  inno- 
cent. He  had  admired  her  at  first  just  as  he  had  admired 
Mrs.  Verschoyle — only  very  much  less;  he  had  been  sorry 
for  her  as  he  would  have  been  sorry  for  anybody  else  simi- 
larly situated;  when  he  learned  the  full  extent  of  her  un- 
happiness  he  had  felt  immense  pity  for  her.  Why  not  ?  But 
the  pity  had  been  perhaps  abnormal — too  violent,  too  inces- 
sant, too  overwhelmingly  strong.  He  liked  being  with  her. 
He  forgot  his  own  sadness  when  sitting  by  her  side,  watching 
her  face,  listening  to  her  voice ;  and  he  forgot  her  sadness 
also. 

227 


228  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

He  did  not  trifle  with  the  truth.  He  meant  to  fight,  and 
he  wanted  to  know  what  he  was  fighting;  he  knew  he  was 
going  to  suffer,  and  he  wanted  to  know  how  much.  Retro- 
spectively, he  could  see  that  the  sentimental  interest,  the  silli- 
ness and  softness  had  manifested  themselves  a  long  way  back 
in  the  progress  of  this  episode ;  but  on  Lilian's  side  there  had 
been  nothing  whatever  of  the  sort.  Thinking  herself  weak 
and  believing  him  strong,  she  had  leaned  upon  him  for 
support.  And  so  far  he  had  not  failed  her:  she  would 
never  guess  that  he  was  weaker  than  water.  No  harm  had 
come  to  her,  and  as  yet  he  could  not  be  permanently  injured. 
It  would  be  quite  absurd  to  suppose  so. 

Constitutionally  and  temperamentally,  he  was  a  man  over 
whom  women — in  this  relation — had  never  exercised  any 
great  power.  In  his  youth  there  had  been  none  of  those 
phases  of  what  is  called  calf-love  to  foretell  the  later  advent 
of  real  passion.  No  impure  desires  had  ever  assailed  him. 
He  had  passed  from  youth  into  manhood  clean  and  undis- 
turbed. And  the  naturally  noble  dreams  that  stimulate  the 
best  of  men  to  seek  a  life-long  comrade  with  a  pretty  face 
and  charming  form  had  also  been  most  strangely  absent. 
He  did  not  desire  women's  company,  he  did  not  like  it; 
their  glowing  beauty  left  him  cold,  their  instinctive  search 
for  wooing  glance  in  all  male  eyes  repelled  him.  He  had 
neither  desired  a  wife,  nor  even  missed  a  sister.  In  all 
the  scheme  of  his  existence  there  had  been  only  one  woman, 
his  mother. 

It  was  not,  therefore,  likely  now  that  all  should  change 
with  him.  But  while  he  reasoned  thus  calmly,  reason  itself 
seemed  to  answer.  The  voice  of  the  logic  he  had  evoked  to 
console  him  inexorably  threatened  him.  It  said :  You  merely 
renounced  what  you  had  never  possessed;  you  looked  with 
contempt  at  what  you  couldn't  comprehend ;  you  denied  the 
existence  of  the  highest  joy  on  earth  because  you  knew 
nothing  about  anything  except  heaven. 

Then  he  ceased  to  argue  with  himself,  or  hunt  for  causes, 
or  belittle  their  effects.  He  was  desperately,  appallingly  fond 
of  this  woman.  There  was  the  truth,  and  the  more  sternly 
he  faced  it  the  more  tremendous  it  became ;  and  his  thoughts, 
rapidly  expanding,  grew  so  big  that  no  words  were  big 
enough  for  their  adequate  expression.  It  seemed  to  him  that 


229 

no  living  man  since  the  world  began  had  so  loved  a  woman. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  all  the  love  that  he  had  felt  throughout 
his  life,  though  apparently  dissipated,  wasted,  gone,  was  in 
truth  stored  like  energy;  that,  slowly  collected  again,  how- 
ever widely  dispersed,  it  was  ready  now  to  be  released ;  that 
his  love  of  his  mother  and  his  love  of  the  whole  of  mankind 
and  his  love  of  the  Creator  of  mankind  were  pouring  out  of 
him  in  the  concentrated,  overwhelming  stream  that  made  up 
his  love  for  Lilian. 

That  was  the  truth.  A  terrible  danger — and  yet  not  really 
a  danger,  because  she  remained  untouched.  The  danger 
would  not  be  real,  unless  some  little  stream  of  love,  a  rivulet 
compared  with  his,  began  to  flow  from  her. 

Then  came  the  thought  that  she  did  care  for  him — uncon- 
sciously perhaps.  If  she  had  been  Miss  Vickers  instead  of 
Mrs.  Vickers,  her  manner  towards  him  would  have  proved 
what  people  call  inclination,  and  all  the  rest  would  have 
followed  naturally.  He  could  not  in  such  circumstances  have 
doubted  the  feelings  that  she  entertained.  Nor  did  he  doubt 
now.  With  a  thrill  of  pleasure  that  was  more  poignantly 
distressing  than  pain,  he  recognised  this  other  aspect  of  the 
truth. 

And  he  thought,  "Why  am  I  so  played  with  ?  This  torment 
is  too  ingenious — it  is  like  an  imagination  of  a  devil,  not  like 
a  test  by  which  a  beneficent  Power  tries  faithful  servants. 
And  why  go  on  testing  me  ?  I  have  already  passed  through 
the  furnace,  I  have  been  put  to  many  proofs,  I  have  borne 
much.  Besides,  if  she  is  to  be  involved — if  she  feels  for  me 
one  millionth  part  of  what  I  feel  for  her — where  is  the  sense 
or  justice,  however  inscrutably  it  is  said  to  work?  Why 
should  she  be  tortured?  Is  not  the  hell  of  her  married  life 
enough  ?" 

And  now  at  last  he  had  a  full  understanding  of  the  intoler- 
able test.  He  said  to  himself:  "I  have  been  tricked  into 
loving  her.  I  was  made  to  believe  her  free,  and  I  gave  her 
my  heart  in  innocence.  She  is  the  only  woman  on  earth  I 
have  wanted,  or  could  want.  If  she  might  have  been  my  wife, 
I  should  have  come  close  to  heaven.  For  heaven  and  earth 
would  have  been  one." 


XXIX 

HE  went  on  with  his  work. 

As  much  as  possible  he  kept  in  the  society  of  Walsden, 
following  him  about,  clinging  to  him,  as  though  hoping  that 
safety  could  be  found  in  the  atmosphere  of  simple  faith, 
dogged  perseverance,  and  almost  brutal  common-sense  that 
habitually  surrounded  the  honest  vicar  wherever  he  chanced 
to  be  at  the  moment.  The  vicar  disapproved  of  the  manner 
in  which  his  favourite  curate  was  spending  money  at  this 
time ;  but  he  allowed  himself  to  be  overborne,  and  the  various 
business  arrangements  relating  to  the  outlay  made  it  neces- 
sary that  the  two  men  should  be  much  together. 

The  transfer  of  Denmark  House  had  been  completed ;  it 
now  belonged  to  the  parish  of  St.  Bede's,  and  Churchill  was 
a  guest  where  he  had  been  host — an  honoured  visitor  who 
would  never  be  disturbed,  and  who  earned  his  welcome  by 
saving  the  salary  of  a  superintendent.  But  a  hostel  without 
funds  to  keep  it  going  is  but  half  a  gift,  so  he  poured  funds 
into  the  strong-box  of  the  trustees.  Then,  too,  he  had  a 
feverish  anxiety  to  render  the  future  of  several  humble 
dependents  quite  secure.  For  instance,  old  Philbrick.  He 
had  made  it  a  condition  of  the  trust  that  the  poor  old  chap 
was  to  be  treated  as  a  permanent  inmate ;  but,  having  hitherto 
allowed  him  a  small  pension,  he  now  capitalised  the  pension. 
The  day  should  not  come  for  Philbrick  when  he  searched 
his  pockets  and  found  no  coins  to  buy  tobacco  or  a  new 
pipe.  And  so  it  was  with  others.  Those  who  had  confidently 
relied  on  Mr.  Churchill  must  not  be  at  the  mercy  of  fresh 
guardians,  however  good  and  kind.  Churchill  felt  that  all 
these  matters  must  be  attended  to  without  a  moment's  delay. 
He  used  to  think,  "I  can't  rest  until  I  am  sure  that  these 
people  are  safe,  whatever  happens  to  me." 

Struggling  to  find  some  effectual  means  of  occupying  his 
mind  during  the  long  hours  when  the  day's  work  was  done, 
and  yet,  in  spite  of  fatigue,  it  was  useless  to  think  of  sleep, 
he  hit  upon  the  idea  of  again  attempting  some  kind  of  literary 

230 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  231 

composition.  Since  his  Oxford  days  he  had  made  no  such 
attempt.  Except  in  writing  sermons  his  pen  had  been  idle. 
Now  it  should  get  some  more  eager,  hurried  practice. 

He  started  with  notes  for  a  novel,  and  for  two  or  three 
evenings  the  entirely  unaccustomed  task  absorbed  him.  He 
was  making  a  framework,  to  be  rilled  in  at  some  subsequent 
period.  His  fable  was  the  life-history  of  a  young  man  who 
rubbed  along  in  a  very  comfortable  humdrum  fashion  until 
circumstances  led  to  his  falling  in  love  with  a  charming  and 
accomplished  young  lady.  For  his  opening  or  exposition  he 
jotted  down  disjointed  scenes,  character  sketches,  descrip- 
tions, and  much  dialogue  that  consisted  chiefly  of  ethical 
arguments;  and  then  he  dashed  ahead,  to  get  at  the  love 
interest.  But  with  his  first  sentence  about  this  interest,  it 
was  as  though  he  had  set  himself  on  fire. 

All  the  thoughts  that  he  had  regarded  as  cold,  inert  refuse 
burst  into  vigorous  flame;  all  the  words  that  he  had  never 
spoken  crackled  explosively  at  the  point  of  his  pen.  This 
form  of  literary  exercise  would  not  do.  He  bundled  the  novel 
notes  together,  put  them  away  in  a  drawer,  and  went  out 
for  a  walk — walked  until  the  night  was  nearly  past,  until  his 
legs  could  scarcely  carry  him,  until  he  was  almost  dead  from 
fatigue. 

On  the  following  evening  he  essayed  a  different  form  of 
composition.  At  Oxford  he  had  written  on  religious  subjects, 
and,  as  he  remembered  well,  had  of  set  purpose  concerned 
himself  with  what  he  wished  to  say,  caring  little  for  the 
manner  in  which  it  was  said.  He  fetched  out  a  batch  of 
manuscripts  that  had  survived  from  that  time,  and  thought 
he  would  glance  through  them.  Builders  on  Sand — yes, 
this  was  the  title  of  a  series  of  papers  that  were  one  day  to 
make  a  published  volume.  They  were  a  confutation  of  all 
the  arguments  of  doubters.  He  changed  his  mind  about 
looking  at  them,  and  put  them  back  in  his  desk  without 
untying  the  string  that  held  them  together.  He  did  not 
propose  to  write  on  religion  now,  but  to  give  a  turn  to  phil- 
osophical thought — the  philosophy  of  everyday  life,  ethics 
of  the  commonplace. 

And  this  he  did,  reversing  his  old  plan,  and  striving  now 
for  graces  of  expression,  trying  to  write  really  well,  labour- 
ing at  every  phrase.  He  cancelled,  re-wrote,  would  not  be 


232  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

satisfied  until,  to  his  mental  ear,  the  words  had  music.  He 
thought  of  Addison,  Ruskin,  Flaubert — of  all  the  stylists; 
and,  with  all  his  might,  struggled  to  have  a  style  himself. 

This  task  succeeded  better  than  the  novel  notes.  He 
found  real  solace  in  it,  and  filled  sad  waking  hours  with  it. 

But  his  nights  were  now  terrible.  As  soon  as  he  slept 
he  began  to  dream,  and  the  dreams  drew  their  source  from 
that  carnal  side  of  human  nature  which,  though  controlled, 
ignored,  rendered  impotent  for  active  evil,  still  inexorably 
exists.  It  is  our  inheritance  from  a  dim  past,  the  fading 
instinct  that  once  played  its  useful  part  in  the  scheme  of  our 
descent  and  the  fierce  unceasing  struggle  for  the  continuance 
of  the  race ;  it  is  the  afterglow  of  battle,  lust,  and  rape  that 
lurks  like  a  hot  memory  in  each  of  the  myriad  cells  whereof 
our  organisms  are  composed. 

In  dreams  he  was  at  the  mercy  of  sensual  desires.  Things 
that  he  had  always  recoiled  from  allured  and  delighted  him. 
He  craved  for  forbidden  joys,  beckoned  to  the  vicious  ser- 
vants of  such  infamy,  imagined  a  luxurious  feast  of  sin  and 
called  upon  life  to  provide  it.  He  was  like  one  of  the 
tempted  Fathers  about  whom  he  used  to  read,  but,  unlike 
them,  greedily  yielding  to  temptation ;  he  was  like  a  wanderer 
in  the  Arabian  Nights,  a  sailor  in  Limehouse  Causeway,  a 
debauchee  student  of  the  Quartier  Latin;  he  was  like  a 
profligate  as  coarse  and  brutal  as  the  man  he  hated. 

An  abominable  ordeal  that  made  sleep  itself  torture  instead 
of  relief.  It  was  as  though  Nature,  offended  by  rebellion 
against  her  laws,  were  treating  him  with  unusual  severity 
in  order  to  prove  herself  supreme.  He  had  ventured  to  be 
abnormal,  she  was  bringing  him  back  into  line — as  if,  because 
he  had  escaped  the  stress  and  storm  of  adolescence,  he  was 
now  in  these  dreams  being  galloped  at  break-neck  speed 
through  all  those  emotional  experiences  or  mental  states 
that  should  have  been  lengthily  suffered  and  got  rid  of  at 
their  appointed  time. 

Yet,  however  vile  the  character  of  a  dream,  it  changed 
at  once  if  Lilian  came  into  it.  Then  in  a  moment  all  became 
pure  and  sweet.  Desire  was  more  intense,  but  absolutely 
devoid  of  gross  passion.  He  longed,  as  in  his  first  dream  of 
her,  to  take  her  hand  and  pass  on,  they  two  together,  happy 
and  alone.  That  was  all.  At  sight  of  her  evil  was  exorcised. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  233 

But  there  were  many  nights  on  which  he  did  not  see  her, 
and  in  the  morning  after  these  he  awoke  feeling  exhausted, 
shattered,  robbed  of  all  the  hope  that  can  sustain  life:  as 
one  who,  having  passed  through  a  dangerous  illness,  begins 
to  understand  that  although  he  may  go  on  living  he  will 
never  really  be  himself  again.  He  did  not  want  to  dress,  to 
eat,  or  to  leave  the  house.  His  was  a  misery  that  should  not 
go  stalking  through  the  streets  for  all  the  world  to  gape  at. 
He  could  scarcely  bear  to  meet  the  eyes  of  that  old  man 
Philbrick.  He  was  ashamed  of,  terrified  by  the  wild  beast 
inside  him  that  was  tearing  him  to  pieces  in  these  nocturnal 
rages. 

Nevertheless  he  went  on  with  his  work;  and  this  new 
phase  passed,  and  was  as  if  it  had  never  been.  The  unwhole- 
some fires  had  burned  themselves  out,  or  the  breath  of  the 
spirit  of  evil  had  ceased  to  fan  them.  He  no  longer  dreaded 
the  moment  when,  sinking  into  unconsciousness,  he  unlocked 
the  lower  mechanism  of  his  brain  and  opened  every  dark 
recess  for  the  nerve  currents  to  enter  and  come  pouring  out 
charged  with  wickedness. 

The  dreams  had  gone ;  but  sleep  had  gone  with  them.  He 
lay  awake  thinking,  the  higher  brain  centres  hard  at  work 
now,  making  for  him  still  another  torment.  Whether  he 
wished  it  or  not,  he  was  forced  to  think  argumentatively ;  to 
pass  in  review  all  his  opinions,  surmises,  or  convictions :  to 
weigh  them  and  test  them.  He  felt  a  pressing  necessity  to  be 
logical  and  exact  in  the  process  of  his  thoughts ;  and  as  the 
sleepless  hours  wore  on,  this  need  grew  heavier  and  his 
ability  to  meet  it  less  and  less.  It  seemed  to  him — and  the 
idea  filled  him  with  the  alarm  and  horror  that  are  the  first 
fruits  of  insomnia — that  he  had  lost  the  power  of  reasoning 
about  even  the  simplest  things,  as  well  as  about  those  that 
are  greatest  and  most  important. 

Still  he  went  on  with  his  work ;  not  sparing  himself,  toiling 
through  the  long,  dull,  meaningless  days;  incessantly, 
feverishly  active,  but  in  a  confused  vague  manner,  and  some- 
times having  slips  of  memory  that  increased  his  labour  and 
made  the  confusion  worse.  Thus  he  sent  instructions  to  his 
bankers  to  sell  a  security  that  they  had  sold  already,  two 
months  ago.  He  could  not  believe  this  possible.  He  had 
never  had  direct  dealings  with  a  stockbroker;  all  his  busi- 


234  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

ness  had  been  conducted  for  him  by  the  bank,  and  he  now 
wrote  to  the  bank  manager  for  a  full  and  detailed  statement 
in  regard  to  his  financial  position.  Receiving  this,  he  muddled 
away  two  or  three  mornings  in  tardy  accountancy,  verifying 
or  trying  to  verify  everything  by  comparing  the  entries  with 
his  own  notes  and  jottings  of  letters.  The  bank,  of  course, 
proved  right,  and  he  wrong.  Fetching  out  more  and  more 
of  his  private  papers,  he  established  the  correctness  of  the 
bank  statement,  and  ascertained  by  the  aid  of  a  very  simple 
arithmetic  exactly  how  he  now  stood  as  a  person  of  inde- 
pendent means.  He  had  nearly  run  through  his  fortune; 
of  invested  capital  there  remained  to  him  only  so  much  as 
might  be  relied  upon  for  an  annual  income  of  one  hundred 
and  three  or  four  odd  pounds. 

He  was  astonished,  but  he  did  not  care.  He  said  to  himself, 
"Then  I  have  shot  my  bolt.  I  must  stick  to  this  money, 
or  I  shall  lose  my  freedom.  I  can  do  no  more  now  for 
Walsden  or  for  anybody  else."  And  he  felt  relief  in  recogni- 
tion of  the  obvious  fact  that  his  benevolent  schemes  had, 
as  it  were,  automatically  come  to  an  end ;  thinking  again  that 
he  was  thoroughly  justified  in  guarding  what  was  left  to 
make  his  own  future  secure.  "It  is  just  enough,"  he  thought, 
"to  make  me  absolutely  free — and  personal  freedom  no  man 
is  called  upon  to  sacrifice."  Two  pounds  a  week — that  was 
his  old  figure.  Ample.  It  was  the  sum  he  had  allotted  to 
himself  years  ago  as  all  that  portion  of  his  fortune  that 
really  belonged  to  him ;  and  curiously,  without  steadily  pur- 
sued calculations,  he  had  reached  the  pre-ordained  limit. 


XXX 

ROBERT  VICKERS  had  come  back  from  the  first  of  the  two 
political  tours ;  his  name  was  on  bills  that  announced  a  public 
meeting;  and  one  day  Churchill  passed  him  in  the  Com- 
mercial Road.  They  nodded  to  each  other,  but  did  not  stop 
to  talk.  While  he  remained  in  London  Churchill  was  haunted 
by  thoughts  of  him. 

Then,  after  he  had  gone  again,  Churchill  had  a  letter  from 
his  wife.  He  trembled  as  he  sat  looking  at  her  handwriting ; 
he  trembled  more  as  he  opened  the  envelope.  What  had 
she  to  say  to  him?  She  apologised  for  detaining  a  book 
that  he  had  lent  her,  and  promised  to  return  it  before  long ; 
and  she  further  said,  "I  am  going  to  the  vicarage  to-morrow 
afternoon  to  help  at  Mrs.  Walsden's  sewing  class.  May  I 
come  to  Denmark  House  afterwards?  I  want  to  ask  you 
one  or  two  questions." 

Churchill  raised  the  letter  to  his  lips,  kissed  it  again  and 
again.  Then  very  slowly  he  tore  it  into  almost  microscopic 
pieces,  and  let  them  fall  through  his  open  fingers  to  the  floor, 
whispering  to  himself  the  while.  "Yes,  my  dear  one,  my 
sweet  one,  come  to  me  to-morrow,  come  to  me  every  clay, 
stay  with  me  and  comfort  me,  even  if  I  can  never  bring 
comfort  to  you."  That  was  the  answer  that  he  wished  to 
send,  the  only  answer  that  would  truly  speak  his  thought. 

He  did  not  send  it. 

Walking  about  his  room,  he  continued  to  whisper,  "So 
now  we  are  in  the  very  thick  of  the  fight.  It  is  'Fight  now, 
Edward  Churchill,  or  lay  down  your  arms.' "  And  he 
laughed,  once  more  remembering  those  Lives  of  the  Fathers, 
the  naive  and  direct  narrations  of  tricky  turns  that  the  Devil 
can  play  when  he  tempts  saintly  men  to  destruction ;  visions 
in  stone  cells,  wantons  dressed  in  nuns'  clothing;  innocent 
birds,  that  sing  like  heaven's  choristers,  win  one's  heart, 
make  one  glad,  and  then  change  their  clear  note  to  pipe  a 
message  from  hell.  "Yes,  quite  a  good  trick  of  the  Devil, 
this,"  and  he  laughed  again — "to  make  it  seem  now  that  she 

235 


236  THE  MIRROR  AND.  THE  LAMP 

cannot  do  without  me;  that  when  I  avoid  her,  she  follows 
me ;  that  if  I  won't  devise  chances  for  wooing  her,  she  will 
herself  give  me  the  occasion." 

He  knew  with  absolute  certainty  that,  whatever  unacknowl- 
edged tenderness  might  lie  hidden  in  her  thoughts  of  him, 
she  had  written  not  as  a  woman  to  a  man  but  as  a  devout 
disciple  to  a  priest.  The  book  he  had  begged  her  to  read  and 
study  was  Father  Bastian  Upway's  treatise  on  the  Sacrament 
of  Marriage.  It  is  full  of  the  most  beautiful  passages,  in 
which  mystery  is  made  easier  to  understand  than  common 
fact,  and  faith  seems  to  issue  triumphantly  from  the  printed 
words;  but  there  are  pages  of  abstruse  analysis  and  subtle 
definition  of  which  the  drift  or  purpose  is  extremely  difficult 
to  follow.  Edward  Churchill  had  no  doubt  but  that  Lilian's 
questions  would  relate  to  the  difficulties  she  had  encountered 
while  reading  the  book,  and  in  imagination  he  went  through 
the.  scene  that  would  take  place  here  to-morrow — if  he  al- 
lowed her  to  come.  They  would  sit  side  by  side  at  his  desk 
over  there ;  he  would  read  aloud  to  her,  pausing  to  expound 
and  elucidate,  but  not  thinking  of  what  he  said,  merely 
absorbing  happiness  from  her  proximity — drinking  joy,  re- 
covering nerve-force,  beginning  to  live  again  after  the  death 
in  life  that  these  weeks  of  separation  had  truly  been  for  him. 

Thinking  thus,  he  sat  down  at  the  desk  and  wrote  to  her. 

"DEAR  MRS.  VICKERS, 

"Unless  the  matter  you  wished  to  discuss  is  really 
urgent,  I  fear  I  must  beg  you  to  excuse  me  to-morrow. 
The  fact  is,  I  am  so  dreadfully  busy  just  now  that  I 
have  not  a  disengaged  minute  at  my  disposal.  Of  course, 
were  it  some  matter  in  which  you  believed  I  could  give 
you  effectual  help,  I  would  put  everything  aside  in  order 
to  receive  you.  But  if  I  do  not  hear  from  you  to  the 
contrary,  I  shall  assume  that  this  is  not  the  case  and 
will  consider  the  appointment  postponed  for  the  present. 
"Yours  sincerely, 

EDWARD  CHURCHILL." 

He  sat  staring  at  his  finished  letter,  thinking  it  the  most 
atrocious  thing  that  pen  and  paper  had  ever  made.  To  send 
that  to  her!  The  odious  formal  phrases  filled  him  with  dis- 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  237 

gust — it  was  like  the  letter  of  a  doctor  to  a  troublesome 
patient,  of  a  tradesman  to  a  customer  whose  custom  had 
ceased  to  be  worth  retaining.  But,  so  far  as  the  wording 
went,  it  was  also  quite  the  usual  letter  of  a  busy  priest  to 
one  of  his  congregation. 

He  posted  it  with  his  own  hand,  and  ascertained  from  the 
tablet  on  the  pillar  box  that  it  would  go  by  a  post  sufficiently 
early  to  ensure  its  delivery  before  nightfall.  If,  therefore, 
she  wanted  to  see  him  very  much  indeed,  there  would  be 
time  for  her  to  write  and  say  so.  Perhaps  he  would  hear 
from  her  to-morrow  morning.  Perhaps  she  would  come 
after  all. 

But  next  morning  he  looked  for  her  handwriting  in  vain. 
And  all  that  afternoon  he  sat  indoors,  manfully  fighting 
temptation.  He  could  not  trust  himself  to  go  out  of  the 
house,  he  scarcely  dared  to  move  from  his  chair,  so  severe 
was  the  battle  and  so  imminent  the  danger  of  yielding  once 
for  all,  and  confessing  himself  beaten. 

He  thought,  "Now  she  is  on  her  way  to  the  vicarage.  I 
could  easily  meet  her  before  she  gets  there.  Now  she  has 
arrived.  The  class  has  assembled.  They  are  all  together  in 
the  drawing-room.  I  could  go  there,  just  open  the  drawing- 
room  door,  and  see  her  face.  I  could  say  I  had  come  to 
speak  to  Mrs.  Walsden.  It  would  be  perfectly  natural  and 
proper;  for  in  sober  truth  I  do  want  to  speak  to  her." 

The  ready  excuse  of  a  businesslike  communication  to  be 
made  to  the  vicar's  wife  added  force  to  the  longings  that 
tempted  him.  Still  he  was  strong  enough  to  resist  them. 
What  he  had  to  say  to  Mrs.  Walsden  would  keep :  there  was 
no  need  for  any  hurry  about  it. 

But  the  hour  when  he  thought  of  Lilian  leaving  the  vicar- 
age, passing  at  a  distance  of  three  hundred  yards,  going 
slowly  through  the  streets  alone — then  the  temptation  was 
agony.  The  calm  May  evening,  the  softening  light,  the  faint 
rustle  of  the  plane  tree  leaves — all  things  seemed  to  aid  in 
tempting  him,  seemed  to  call  him  and  to  deride  him.  Why 
was  he  lurking  in  this  room,  shrinking  back  among  the 
shadows,  asking  for  darkness  and  emptiness,  when  destiny 
offered  colour  and  light  and  joy?  Not  because  he  was  a 
saint,  but  because  he  was  a  coward — mocking  voices 
seemed  to  dare  him.  Only  cowards  hide  and  skulk  like 


238  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

this:  brave  men  are  not  afraid  of  life:  they  go  forth  and 
meet  it  bravely. 

As  always  now,  concentrated  thought  about  her  created 
a  vivid  mental  vision  of  her.  He  saw  her  looking  towards 
him — just  a  glance  in  the  direction  of  Denmark  House, 
before  she  turned  down  Vaughan  Street.  And  he  saw  her 
walking  away  from  him,  pale,  sad,  alone. 

He  moved  to  one  of  the  window  seats,  as  the  farthest 
possible  point  from  the  door  through  which  he  would 
pass  if  he  rushed  to  overtake  her ;  and  sitting  here,  looking 
down  into  the  green  branches  and  the  little  patch  of 
walled  garden,  he  clenched  his  fists,  writhed,  and  groaned 
in  agony. 

He  waited  until  it  was  dark,  until  all  chance  of  seeing 
her  had  long  since  gone,  and  then  he  went  round  to  the 
vicarage  and  gave  his  message  to  Mrs.  Walsden.  This 
small  parochial  duty  accomplished,  he  had  no  further  bus- 
iness at  the  vicarage;  but  he  lingered,  hoping  that  Mrs. 
Walsden  would  speak  of  her  sewing  class  and  the  people 
who  had  attended  it.  She  did  not  do  so,  and  before  he 
could  tear  himself  away  he  was  compelled  to  ask  a  ques- 
tion. 

"Was  Mrs.  Vickers  here  this  afternoon?" 

"Yes,  she  was.    How  ill  she's  looking!" 

"Ill !"  The  notion  of  her  being  ill  appalled  him ;  and  he 
asked  more  questions,  eagerly,  almost  breathlessly.  How 
ill?  Did  Mrs.  Walsden  mean  anything  serious,  or  merely 
some  slight  indisposition  ? 

Mrs.  Walsden,  answering  rather  carelessly  but  quite 
kindly  and  reassuringly,  said  she  only  meant  that  Mrs. 
Vickers  appeared  "pasty  and  peeky,  unhealthily  pale,  and 
with  nasty  bilious-looking  circles  round  her  eyes." 

"I  told  her  that  if  she  felt  as  seedy  as  she  looked,  she 
ought  not  to  have  troubled  to  come  all  this  way  on  my 
account.  But  she  said  she  enjoyed  it.  She  is  a  kind  crea- 
ture— always  glad  to  lend  one  a  helping  hand." 

If  she  were  to  fall  ill — if  she  were  to  die.  It  would  be 
the  end  of  the  world  to  him — nothing  less.  Large  as  the 
earth  is,  he  would  never  be  able  to  find  a  pleasant  place 
on  it  when  once  she  had  ceased  to  be  numbered  among  its 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP         239 

inhabitants.  Heaven  would  not  be  heaven  if  he  could  not 
meet  her  in  it.  Hell  would  not  be  hell  if  he  might  go  there 
with  her  hand  in  hand. 

Wild  thoughts  swept  through  his  mind  as  he  walked 
away  from  the  vicarage.  If  she  were  really  ill  he  must  go 
straight  to  her.  But  he  knew  that  she  was  not  really  ill: 
she  was  only  tired  and  unhappy. 

He  thought  with  astonishment,  but  with  no  anger,  of 
the  preposterous  adjectives  that  Mrs.  Walsden  had  used 
when  speaking  of  the  pallor  that  made  her  so  touchingly 
beautiful,  of  those  shadows  that  gave  such  splendour  to 
her  eyes,  and  indeed  to  the  whole  of  her  delicate  face, 
making  it  mysterious,  pathetic,  unforgettable.  To  Mrs. 
Walsden,  perhaps,  she  was  scarcely  pretty,  and  not  in  the 
least  fascinating.  How  marvellous!  No  one  saw  her  as 
he  saw  her.  He  fully  realised  the  individual  appeal  of  this 
woman.  To  him  it  was  terrific  and  overpowering:  while 
perhaps  no  one  else  could  even  perceive  it.  And  !he 
thought,  "Yes,  that  is  love." 

Reaching  the  lamps  and  noise  of  the  main  thoroughfare, 
he  suddenly  found  himself  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd.  A 
man  had  been  seized  with  a  fit,  had  fallen,  and  was  now 
rolling  and  bouncing  about  the  pavement  in  convulsions. 
A  policeman  stooping  over  him  was  tripped  up  and  fell; 
Churchill  tried  to  help  and  went  down  also;  half  a  dozen 
other  people  were  endeavouring  to  hold  the  poor  fellow; 
for  a  little  while  it  was  like  a  football  scrimmage.  Then 
the  sufferer,  stretched  upon  his  back,  was  secured  by  many 
hands ;  and  presently  he  lay  quite  still,  foaming  at  the 
mouth  and  groaning. 

He  was  a  fine-looking  man  of  forty  or  so,  respectably 
dressed  in  black  clothes,  and  with  a  strong,  handsome  face 
that  Churchill  felt  sure  he  had  seen  before.  The  police- 
man had  sent  for  an  ambulance,  and  he  was  now  busy 
with  the  crowd,  who  would  not  go  away,  although  ob- 
viously all  amusement  or  entertainment  was  over. 

"Now,  pass  along,"  said  the  policeman.  "Stand  back, 
can't  you?  Give  him  air.  What's  the  sense  of  trying  to 
suffocate  him?" 

Churchill  asked  that  when  the  ambulance  arrived  the 
man  might  be  taken  to  Denmark  House,  instead  of  to  the 


240  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

hospital  or  the  police  station.  He  undertook  to  look  after 
the  man  and  provide  medical  treatment  and  nursing. 

He  knew  the  man ;  he  and  the  man  had  met  before — but 
where?  He  remembered  the  face,  and,  when  presently  the 
eyelids  blinked  and  lifted,  he  remembered  the  eyes.  They 
stared  glassily  up  at  him.  He  knew  that  he  had  seen  that 
glassy  stare  and  had  been  uncomfortably  affected  by  it 
then  as  now;  and  when  this  happened  there  had  been 
lamplight  on  the  face  as  at  present. 

The  ambulance  came,  the  man  was  lifted  upon  it,  and  at 
the  same  moment  he  began  to  talk  mutteringly.  Churchill, 
stooping  down  to  replace  a  dangling  arm,  heard  what  he 
said  and  was  strangely  startled. 

"Heaven  or  hell.  Which  is  it  to  be?  Are  you  going  to 
heaven  or  going  to  hell  ?" 

Churchill  remembered  then  when  he  had  met  the  man. 
It  was  the  mad  preacher,  seen  and  heard  by  him  on  his 
first  Saturday  night  at  St.  Bede's,  who  stood  at  the  lamp-lit 
corner  with  the  crowd  jostling  him  but  taking  no  notice  of 
him  while  he  talked  unceasingly  of  heaven  and  hell. 

He  went  on  talking  about  them  now,  as  the  ambulance 
began  to  move,  raising  his  voice  to  a  laboured  shout. 

"Heaven  and  hell.  Oh,  my  friends,  do  you  understand 
it  is  the  one  place  or  the  other  ?  Which  is  it  to  be  ?  Heaven 
or  hell?  .  .  ,  Heaven  or  hell?  .  .  .  Heaven  or  hell?" 


XXXI 

THE  man's  name  was  Elvey,  and  until  quite  recently  he 
had  been  in  receipt  of  a  good  salary  as  an  engineer's 
draughtsman  at  one  of  the  Thames  ironworks.  Then,  fall- 
ing ill,  he  had  lost  his  employment.  He  had  taken  up 
his  "mission"  eight  years  ago,  after  a  "summons"  that 
came  to  him  in  the  form  of  "nocturnal  voices,  the  echo  of 
lamentation,  and  the  sound  of  a  rushing  mighty  wind;" 
and  from  that  period  till  now  he  had  been  regularly  preach- 
ing. If  he  possessed  any  friends  or  relations,  he  appeared 
to  have  forgotten  all  about  them.  Earthly  ties  were  not 
worth  attention  in  presence  of  the  eternal  danger  and  the 
eternal  hope. 

He  imparted  this  much  of  his  story  to  Churchill,  who 
often  sat  by  his  bedside  during  the  first  day  or  two  after 
his  arrival  at  Denmark  House.  He  offered  no  thanks  for 
Churchill's  hospitality;  nor  did  he  make  any  inquiries  as 
to  the  nature  of  the  establishment  in  which  he  found  him- 
self ;  he  lay  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  head, 
staring  at  the  walls  or  ceiling  of  the  bedroom  as  though 
he  could  see  through  them  and  hundreds  of  miles  beyond 
them. 

The  doctor  said  that  he  was  suffering  from  the  exhaus- 
tion of  nervous  energy  that  invariably  follows  such  a 
seizure  as  his.  He  might  require  a  good  many  weeks' 
rest,  but  in  a  greater  or  less  time  his  strength  would  be 
restored  and  then  he  would  be  all  right  again — that  is  to 
say,  as  right  as  he  would  ever  be. 

According  to  the  doctor  he  was  a  very  ordinary  type 
of  the  religious  epileptic.  He  was  not  mad  enough  as  yet 
to  shut  up;  for  although  his  views  of  religion  plainly  indi- 
cated aberration,  still  they  were  views  which  in  a  less 
violent  or  extreme  form  were  held  by  large  numbers  of 
people;  and  with  regard  to  the  everyday  matters  of  life 
he  was  sufficiently  sane  to  conduct  himself  with  propriety. 
For  instance,  he  had  been  able  to  retain  his  employment 

241 


242  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

as  a  highly  skilled  workman.  As  to  the  prognosis  of  the 
case — well,  it  was  not  favourable.  He  would  probably 
have  many  attacks,  and  die  mad,  really  mad,  ravingly  mad. 

"Can  I  do  anything  else  for  him  than  what  is  being 
done?" 

"No,"  said  the  doctor,  "let  him  rest  as  long  as  he  likes, 
and  then  he  will  go  away." 

"But  ought  I  to  allow  him  to  go?" 

"You  could  not  prevent  his  going  if  you  tried.  It  would 
be  just  the  same  if  we  had  him  at  our  shop.  When  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  get  up  and  go,  our  whole  staff 
wouldn't  be  able  to  stop  him." 

Truly  Churchill  felt  no  desire  to  detain  poor  Elvey. 
Never  before  had  there  been  a  guest  at  Denmark  House 
so  strangely  inexplicably  unwelcome  to  him.  Had  he  rec- 
ognised the  mad  street  preacher  a  little  earlier,  certainly 
had  he  heard  him  mutter  those  words  about  heaven  and 
hell,  he  could  not  have  overcome  his  disinclination;  he 
might  still  have  wished  to  do  so,  and  thought  that  duty 
told  him  to  do  it,  but  he  could  not  have  brought  the  man 
here  into  the  same  house  with  himself. 

This  kind  doctor,  who  attended  to  Denmark  House  pa- 
tients gratuitously,  was  one  of  Churchill's  friends  from  the 
London  Hospital,  and  he  spoke  of  other  friends  or  ac- 
quaintances at  that  noble  and  nobly  conducted  institution. 
Talking  with  him,  Churchill  heard  the  latest  news  of  their 
physiological  research  work,  brilliant  feats  of  curative 
surgery,  patient  toil  producing  marvels  in  the  laboratory. 
As  he  knew,  the  place  was  a  hive  of  industry.  And  his 
friend  gave  him  a  particularly  striking  example  of  the 
perils  that  such  industry  sometimes  entails — perils  so 
great,  it  would  seem,  that  no  one  could  be  justified  in 
facing  them,  unless  sure  of  some  splendid  inpalpable  re- 
ward alike  for  failure  and  for  success.  No  material  re- 
ward do  they  either  expect  or  receive. 

A  young,  highly  esteemed  bacteriologist,  pursuing  a 
special  and  very  hopeful  line  in  the  cultivation  of  pes- 
tilential germs,  had  fatally  poisoned  himself.  He  and 
everybody  else  in  the  hospital  knew  that  he  was  done  for. 
He  might  live  for  three  years,  and  the  last  of  those  three 
years  would  be  most  dreadful.  But  he  was  perfectly 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  243 

cheerful  and  jolly,  going  on  with  his  investigation,  pur- 
suing the  happy  line,  only  perhaps  working  longer  hours 
and  with  greater  ardour  since  now  time  was  so  short. 
His  one  anxiety  had  been  lest  he  should  become  a  source 
of  danger  to  others;  once  satisfied  that  with  certain  pre- 
cautions he  would  be  a  safe  companion,  he  worried  no 
more.  But  an  immediate  stoppage  of  the  work  and 
banishment  from  the  only  place  in  which  the  work  was 
possible  would  have  broken  his  heart. 

And  Edward  Churchill  thought,  "Yet  he  is  almost  cer- 
tainly an  unbeliever.  None  of  these  men  are  believers  in 
our  sense  of  the  word.  They  are  not  Christians  in  their 
faith,  though  most  Christian  in  their  actions.  They  sacri- 
fice themselves  for  others,  they  live  for  others,  they  die 
for  others.  But  they  ask  nothing  for  themselves.  They 
do  not  believe  that  God  came  down  from  heaven  and  dwelt 
upon  earth,  showing  the  hard  way  but  promising  the  bliss- 
ful ease." 

All  that  evening  he  thought  about  the  countless  people 
who  do  not  hold  the  Christian  faith.  The  world  is  peo- 
pled with  unbelievers.  More  ancient  religions  have  con- 
tinued, newer  religions  have  been  inaugurated;  agnos- 
ticism, vague  speculation,  sheer  indifference,  have  proved 
as  formidable  rivals  to  Christianity  as  any  of  the  formu- 
lated creeds.  Musingly,  he  considered  not  only  the  ninety 
per  cent,  of  non-Christians  that  dwelt  all  round  him,  and 
the  vast  hordes  of  untutored  heathen  beloved  by  Wals- 
den,  but  the  great  civilised  races — the  wise  Chinese,  the 
brave  Japs,  the  fiery,  far-spreading  Turks. 

He  wrote  a  little ;  thought  again,  wrote  again.  Then  he 
began  to  turn  the  leaves  of  Whitaker's  Almanac,  reading 
the  estimated  populations  of  Buddhist  nations,  looking 
for  the  total  set  down  for  the  followers  of  Mohammedanism, 
wondering  if  he  would  presently  find  a  table  that  gave  the 
proportionate  aggregates  and  showed  how  many  Christians 
there  were  altogether — pretended  Christians ;  for  of  course 
any  such  stated  number  would  include  all  who  professed 
to  belong,  or  had  ever  professed  to  belong,  to  the  Chris- 
tian Church. 

Presently  he  raised  his  head,  and  listened.  He  fancied 
that  he  had  heard  a  voice — somebody  calling  to  him  from 


244  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

a  distance.  It  was  late  now;  every  one  had  come  in  long 
ago.  For  a  minute,  while  he  sat  listening,  the  silence  re- 
mained unbroken ;  then  he  heard  the  voice  again. 

He  went  out  of  his  room,  to  the  first  floor  landing,  and 
turned  on  an  electric  lamp.  He  could  hear  the  voice  dis- 
tinctly now.  It  was  Elvey's.  He  went  upstairs  to  Elvey's 
room  and  opened  the  door. 

"You  were  talking,  weren't  you?  Do  you  want  any- 
thing?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Elvey.  "I  was  only  talking  to 
myself.  I  often  do  at  night.  It  refreshes  me.  But  I'm 
sorry  I  disturbed  you.  I  didn't  think  I'd  be  overheard." 

"Oh,  that's  no  consequence — so  long  as  you  don't  disturb 
the  others.  Good-night." 

Churchill  closed  the  bedroom  door,  and  stood  for  a  little 
while  outside  it.  Elvey  began  talking  again  almost  imme- 
diately, but  in  a  lower  voice. 

"Heaven  or  hell.  I  have  chosen  heaven.  It  is  there 
that  I  fix  my  eyes.  .  .  ." 

Churchill  went  downstairs,  unbolted  the  front  door,  and 
left  the  house  in  order  to  get  a  breath  of  air.  Returning 
after  half  an  hour  he  stood  in  the  hall  and  listened.  Faint 
and  distant,  coming  to  him  from  the  top  of  the  house,  that 
same  monotonous  recitation  grew  audible.  He  ascended 
the  stairs,  past  his  own  room,  as  if  drawn  upward  by  the 
voice;  then  when  he  was  high  enough  to  catch  each  word, 
he  paused  and  sat  upon  a  stair-step,  holding  his  head  in 
his  hands. 

"I  say  unto  you,  except  ye  believe,  ye  shall  not  inherit 
the  kingdom  of  heaven" — the  voice  went  on  monotonously. 

"You  are  all  in  danger  of  hell  fire.     It  is  heaven  or  hell. 
ii 

And  Edward  Churchill  thought:  "Yes,  a  madman — a 
madman  lying  all  alone  in  the  darkness,  and  talking  of 
things  that  no  living  eye  has  ever  seen." 

The  presence  of  this  guest  in  the  house  worried  him,  and 
had  a  bad  effect  on  his  nerves ;  but  the  visit  did  not  last  long. 
One  morning  quite  early  Elvey  got  up,  washed,  carefully 
brushed  his  clothes,  and  dressed  himself;  then,  having 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  245 

gone  out  and  got  shaved,  he  tapped  at  Churchill's  door  and 
said  good-bye. 

"Where  are  you  off  to  in  such  a  hurry?" 

"I  must  go  to  Glasgow,"  said  Elvey.  "I  have  read  about 
it  in  the  newspapers.  It  is  a  wicked  city.  I  must  go 
there  at  once  and  warn  them.  I  have  warned  London  for 
eight  years.  Glasgow  is  the  next  biggest  place.  I  must  go 
to  Glasgow  now." 

"How  do  you  propose  to  travel  there?" 

"I  shall  walk." 

"Elvey,  I  don't  think  you're  quite  up  to  that  yet.  Let 
me  give  you  your  rail  fare." 

"No,  thank  you.  I  prefer  to  walk.  There  is  great 
wickedness  in  the  country  villages  of  England,  and  I  mean 
to  warn  them  as  I  pass.  Good-bye;"  and  disregarding 
Churchill's  outstretched  hand,  he  turned  and  went  out  of 
the  room.  Nothing  could  have  prevented  him  from  go- 
ing; no  one  could  materially  affect  the  future  that  lay 
before  him.  He  had  his  mission  and  his  doom:  he  would 
fulfil  both. 

A  day  or  two  after  Elvey's  departure  Mrs.  Clough,  the 
housekeeper,  opened  the  door  of  Churchill's  sitting-room, 
and,  looking  in,  saw  him  busy  at  his  desk. 

"Ah,  you  are  there,"  said  the  housekeeper.  "I  thought 
you  was,  but  wasn't  sure.  It's  Mrs.  Vickers  would  like  to 
speak  to  you,  if  you  can  spare  her  a  minute." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Vickers!"  And  he  hesitated.  "Yes,  I  will 
come  down  to  her." 

''You  won't  see  her  in  here?  Very  good,"  said  Mrs. 
Clough.  "I've  brought  her  upstairs  with  me,  but  I'll  take 
her  down  again." 

"No,  of  course  not.  I  didn't  understand;"  and  he 
hastily  rose  from  his  chair.  "Mrs.  Vickers,  please  come 
in." 

The  door  had  remained  open,  and  obviously  anybody 
outside  must  have  heard  all  that  he  and  Mrs.  Clough  were 
saying.  That  this  had  indeed  happened  was  made  still 
further  evident  by  the  extreme  embarrassment  of  Lilian 
Vickers's  manner. 


246  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

"Mr.  Churchill,  I'm  so  very  sorry  to  disturb  you.  Please 
forgive  me." 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  he  said  feebly. 

"I  have  brought  you  back  The  Sacrament  of  Marriage. 
Thank  you  for  lending  it  to  me." 

"Er — not  in  the  least.    Did  you  read  it?" 

"Yes,  I  really  studied  it  carefully — and  as  I  was  passing, 
I  thought  I  would  bring  it  myself;"  and  she  put  the  book 
on  the  corner  of  his  desk.  It  was  neatly  tied  up  in 
brown  paper,  as  though  something  precious  that  must  not 
run  any  risks  of  getting  soiled  when  carried  about  in 
trams.  "I  thought,"  she  said,  looking  down  at  the  parcel 
— -"I  hoped  that  perhaps " 

"Yes,"  he  said,  divining  her  thought,  "I  know — I  under- 
stand. For  us  to  talk  about  it!  For  me  to  tell  you  any- 
thing that  I— that  I " 

"Yes,  if  you  could  have  spared  time — that  is  what  I 
hoped." 

He  had  not  asked  her  to  sit  down.  They  stood  looking 
at  each  other,  she  at  the  corner  of  the  big  desk,  he  stand- 
ing behind  his  chair  with  his  hands  tightly  gripping  the 
back  of  it. 

"I  guessed  that  immediately,"  he  said.  "But  it  is  un- 
fortunate— you  find  me  at  the  moment "  and  he  stopped 

short  and  coughed.  She  was  looking  at  him  inquiringly, 
anxiously,  and,  as  it  seemed,  reproachfully.  She  wore  no 
veil,  so  that  the  pallor  of  her  face,  those  dusky  circles 
round  her  eyes,  and  the  slight  trembling  of  her  lips,  were 
fully  visible  to  him.  "Mrs.  Vickers,"  he  said  abruptly, 
"how  are  you — in  your  health?" 

"Oh,  I  am  quite  well,  thank  you." 

"Some  one  told  me  you  looked  ill — it  was  Mrs.  Walsden. 
But  you  have  not  been  ill  really?" 

"Oh,  no.  I  did  feel  the  beginning  of  the  warm  weather. 
It  gave  me  headaches." 

"Is  your  head  aching  now?" 

"No,  not  at  all." 

'"I — I  am  glad  to  hear  that.  I  hope  you  will  take  care 
of  yourself.  .  .  .  But  about  the  book — yes,  I  ventured — 
when  I  wrote — to  explain  that  I  am  unusually  harassed, 
and  therefore  to  excuse  myself  from " 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  247 

"Yes,  I  got  your  letter." 

"I  hope  you  understood.     You — you  weren't  offended?" 

"I  offended?  How  could  I  be?"  Then  suddenly  her 
face  flushed.  "But,  Mr.  Churchill,  I  couldn't  help  think- 
ing that  perhaps — for  some  reason — you  were  rather 
offended  with  me." 

"No — most  certainly  not.  Why?  How  did  you  get 
such  an  utterly  mistaken  idea?" 

"I  wouldn't  have  had  it  if  I'd  been  quite  sure  that  it  was 
really  because  you  were  so  busy  that  you  didn't  want  to 
see  me.  But  you  have  been  so  kind — and  then  I  began  to 
think  you  might  fancy  that  all  your  trouble  had  been 
wasted,  and  that  I  wasn't  even  trying  to  do  what  you'd 
said,"  and  her  voice  broke. 

"I  did  not  fancy  it  for  a  moment.  No,  on  my  honour, 
it  was  no  reason  of  that  sort." 

"Then  I  won't  think  so.  But  truly  this  is  why  I  have 
come  troubling  you  now.  I  felt  that  I  must  come  and  tell 
you  that  no  word  of  yours  had  been  lost — that  I  have 
obeyed  you — that  I  have  been  much  braver — that  I — that 
I  don't  mean  to  do  any  of  the  things  I  spoke  of." 

"No,  you  must  be  brave — you  must  just  be  brave." 

"And,  Mr.  Churchill,  if  I  haven't  understood  all  Father 
Upway  says,  I  see  that  it  is  all  of  it  true." 

"Yes,  that  is  it.  Never  mind  the  rest.  Essentials — stick 
to  essentials.  Don't  go  too  deep.  Be  satisfied  with  the 
main  principle."  He  was  speaking  hurriedly  and  incon- 
secutively;  and  when  she  turned  as  though  about  to  go,  he 
abruptly  asked  her  to  sit  down  for  a  few  minutes.  "The 
fact  is — as  I  tried  to  explain — you  catch  me  unprepared — 
at  an  unlucky  time — that  is,  for  me,  personally.  Nothing 
to  do  with  you — of  course;"  and  he  walked  across  to  one 
of  the  windows  and  looked  out.  "You  have  shown  such 
confidence,  such  frankness  in  dealing  with  me,  Mrs.  Vick- 
ers — and  I  assure  you  I  am  touched  by  it — that  I  feel 
bound  to  be  frank  myself.  Well,  then,  I  wish  to  explain." 
He  had  said  this  in  the  same  hurried  tone,  and  without 
looking  at  her.  Now  he  faced  round  from  the  window, 
clasped  his  hands  behind  his  back,  and  spoke  slowly,  gently, 
as  one  struggling  to  choose  the  words  that  may  best  serve 
his  purpose.  "Because  of  various  circumstances,  no  re- 


2AS  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

marks  of  mine  about  Upway's  teaching  could  possess  the 
slightest  value.  Indeed,  I  could  not  trust  myself  to  dis- 
cuss it.  For  some  weeks  I  have  been  excessively  harassed. 
Moreover,  frankly — returning  confidence  for  confidence — 
I  too  am  not  happy.  Mrs.  Vickers,  I  am  very  unhappy. 
And  my  present  state  of  mind — the  egoism  one  cannot 
escape  from  unquestionably  warps,  even  destroys  one's 
power  to  think  as  one  should  of  other  people's  ideas. 
This  being  so,  I  feel  that  I  can  no  longer  speak  to  you  as  a 
priest.  I — I  can  not  hope  to  help  you  further." 

"I  am  sorry." 

"No,  don't  be  sorry.  You  see,  I  have  told  you  your 
duty.  That  is,  I  have  put  before  you — very  severely,  yet 
not  more  severely  than  any  priest  would  have  done — the 
religious  view — the  er — the — the  view  of  the  Catholic 
Church." 

"Yes — and  I  humbly  submit." 

"You  do.  You  are  brave  and  good.  That  again  proves 
that  I  cannot  help  you  further.  So  that  is  why — taking 
everything  into  consideration — I  think  it  better  you  should 
not  come  back  here  again — that  I  ask  you  not  to  come  back 
unless  you  are  in  pressing  trouble;"  and,  unconsciously 
perhaps,  he  used  a  turn  of  phrase  that  he  had  heard  on 
Walsden's  lips.  "You  know:  the  sort  of  trouble  in  which 
a  brother — and  not  a  priest — might  help  you." 

Lilian  Vickers  had  got  up  from  her  chair.  She  was 
flushing  again ;  but  she  grew  white  in  a  moment  as  he  came 
towards  her. 

"You  do  understand,  don't  you?"  he  said,  as  he  shook 
hands  with  her. 

"Oh,  quite." 

"You  know  that  I  am  deeply  interested — and  shall  always 
be — in  all  that  concerns  you." 

"Yes,  thank  you.  You  are  very  kind.  .  .  .  No,  please 
don't  come  downstairs  with  me.  Good-bye." 

And  as  he  stood  at  the  door  holding  it  open  for  her,  he 
noticed  her  tallness,  her  unusually  erect  carriage,  and  some- 
thing about  her  more  dignified  and  self-reliant  than  he  had 
ever  observed  before. 

He  watched  her  go  down  the  stairs ;  then  went  into  one 
of  the  front  rooms  and  watched  her  from  the  window.  She 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  249 

seemed  now  to  walk  sadly,  but  still  proudly.  And  then 
just  before  she  disappeared,  she  seemed  to  droop,  to  move 
languidly,  wearily ;  and  he  wanted  to  rush  out  of  the  house, 
to  follow  her,  to  implore  her  to  forget  what  he  had  said, 
to  come  back  again  and  again  and  again. 

Once  more  he  conquered  a  violent  imptilse;  but  the 
effort  that  successfully  inhibited  action  was  followed  by  a 
reflex  of  fierce  revolt  in  the  realm  of  thought. 

Why  not  have  yielded?  Why  preach  that  doctrine  of 
blind  submission?  Why  might  she  not  escape  from  her 
bondage,  divorce  the  brutal  tyrant,  and  find  a  mate  who,  if 
not  worthy  of  her,  would  at  least  love  her  more  devotedly 
than  any  woman  has  ever  yet  been  loved? 

He  thought  of  the  only  possible  answer  to  these  ques- 
tions. "Because  by  so  doing  we  should  break  the  divine 
law."  And  then  came  more  questions.  "But  do  I  myself 
believe  in  the  law?  Does  any  divine  law  exist?" 


XXXII 

IT  was  late  at  night!  no  distant,  monotonous  voice  now 
disturbed  the  silence  of  the  house  as  Churchill  sat  reading 
those  manuscript  notes  that  he  had  put  together  years  ago 
at  Oxford. 

Builders  on  Sand — that  was  the  title  he  had  intended  to 
give  them  if  they  ever  appeared  in  print.  They  were  a  vin- 
dication of  the  Christian  faith,  a  demolition  of  the  specious 
arguments  of  its  enemies,  and  he  remembered  his  feelings 
while  writing  them:  the  pleasure  derived  from  the  exer- 
cise of  intellectual  power,  the  satisfied  thrill  that  comes  in 
moments  of  triumphant  success,  the  quieter  contentment 
derived  from  a  task  fairly  started  and  smoothly  proceed- 
ing to  a  workman-like  completion.  He  remembered  that 
in  the  act  of  scribbling  certain  passages  he  had  felt  rather 
sorry  for  the  scientific  doubters  with  whom  he  dealt. 
They  deserved  punishment,  but  he  was  perhaps  belabour- 
ing them  a  little  too  heavily  when  they  no  longer  had  a  leg 
to  stand  on. 

He  read  the  notes  very  carefully,  and  they  seemed  to 
him  childish  nonsense.  He  read  with  equal  care  his  ex- 
tracts from  the  impious,  unbelieving  books,  and  they 
seemed  to  him  sober  direct  statements  of  irrefutable  facts. 

Then  he  sat  quietly  musing ;  for  a  little  while  quite  calm, 
pleasantly  interested,  enjoying  this  leisurely  meditation. 
He  thought  of  that  first  deathbed  scene,  of  his  ecstasy  of 
prayer,  of  his  rapture  when  the  dying  man  had  a  vision  of 
high  heaven.  He  himself  felt  the  nearness  of  God — some 
transcendental  presence  that  swept  into  the  sordid  little 
room,  instantaneously  filling  it  with  glory.  And  the  man's 
last  flicker  of  consciousness  was  a  certainty  of  salvation; 
so  that  he  died  not  as  a  person  who  slips  or  trips  in  front 
of  an  express  train  and  with  agonised  terror  struggles  to 
escape  from  approaching  annihiliation,  but  as  a  happy 
child  who  enters  the  train  itself  to  take  the  swift  easy  jour- 
ney to  the  promised  land  of  long  and  joyous  holiday.  Yes, 
but  all  that  was  illusion. 

250 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  251 

The  illusion  had  worn  thinner  and  thinner  at  subse- 
quent deathbeds,  when  Churchill  knelt  praying  but  not 
really  believing.  He  had  not  understood  why  and  how 
the  glamour  had  faded.  He  knew  now.  Again  and  again 
of  late  he  had  been  tortured  by  the  cruelty  of  such  scenes, 
when  the  doomed  ones  clung  to  life  and  craved  for  nothing 
except  a  reprieve  from  the  grave.  He  had  thought:  Why 
tell  these  people  that  they  are  going  to  die?  Poor 
wretches !  The  wives  and  mothers  prepare  them  for  the 
parson.  Why  not  concentrate  all  efforts  on  making  them 
oblivious  of  danger  in  their  last  hours? 

That  pleasant  pause  of  mental  calm  passed  away,  and 
the  hot  revolt  that  had  begun  this  afternoon,  when  with 
cut-and-dried  phrases  he  drove  from  him  the  woman  he 
adored,  burst  into  renewed  activity.  He  got  up,  walked 
about  the  room,  talking  aloud  to  himself.  "Am  I  to  con- 
fess, then,  that  I  have  simply  been  the  slave  of  supersti- 
tion? At  first  I  was  its  abject  and  unquestioning  slave. 
Then  I  must  truly  have  known  that  my  state  was  slavery, 
but  I  would  not  attempt  to  free  myself.  I  became  the 
slave  of  habit." 

Doubtless  his  belief  had  been  gone  for  a  considerable 
time;  that  dread  lest  others  should  waver  in  their  faith 
had  probably  been  symptomatic  of  what  was  happening  to 
himself,  but  this  was  the  shock  of  recognition  of  the  fact. 
For  him  the  whole  Christian  legend  had  tumbled  into  dust. 
He  saw  it  as  futile,  childish  nonsense.  The  questions  of 
those  poor  costermongers  about  "The  Son  of  Gawd"  were 
unanswerable,  had  always  been  unanswerable.  The  story 
of  the  divine  atonement  was  utter  bosh  from  the  first  word 
to  the  last. 

Yet  even  now  he  was  struggling  against  the  acceptance 
of  such  terrible  thoughts  as  these.  If  he  could  not  throw 
them  off,  it  would  mean  an  admission  of  idiotic  failure ; 
it  would  mean  that  all  his  youth  and  the  better  part  of  his 
manhood  had  been  wasted;  it  would  mean  that  instead  of 
permitting  the  natural  growth  of  his  intellect,  he  had 
starved  it  and  distorted  it  so  abominably  that  all  the  fruit 
it  bore  was  rotten  and  unsound. 

Then  he  ceased  to  struggle,  saying  to  himself,  "This  was 


252  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

inevitable.  And  if  it  is  the  truth  I  must  face  it.  Little  by 
little  everything  has  been  taken  from  me — my  mother's 
love,  the  anchorage  of  home,  all  hope  of  happiness  in  mar- 
ried life;  I  have  been  slowly  and  inexorably  forced  back 
upon  myself ;  at  last  I  stand  absolutely  alone.  My  mind  is 
all  that  I  possess.  Why  should  I  be  afraid  of  it?" 

And  all  through  the  night  he  raged  and  reasoned,  driven 
by  a  wild  anger  against  himself  and  everybody  else; 
against  the  generations  of  fools  who  had  handed  down  all 
the  cumbrous  machinery  of  mental  servitude;  against  the 
State  that  aided  and  supported  medieval  folly  and  trampled 
on  those  who  tried  to  emancipate  mankind;  against  the 
teachers  who  darken  the  eyes  and  burden  the  spirits  of 
poor  little  innocent  children;  against  schools  like  St. 
Martyr's,  towns  like  St.  Dunstan's,  universities  like  Ox- 
ford— against  everything  great  and  small  that  had  had 
its  share  in  befogging,  benighting,  and  befooling  him.  He 
worked  himself  to  a  fury  that  was  akin  to  delirium ;  know- 
ing that  his  thoughts  were  wickedly  unjust,  and  yet  giving 
them  full  scope,  stimulating  them,  flogging  them  to  in- 
creased activity. 

Nothing  in  the  legend!  It  is  shattered  by  historical 
research,  by  the  revelations  of  science,  by  common  sense. 

He  thought  of  all  the  ridiculous  new  sects  that  year  after 
year  had  split  away  from  the  Church  and  set  up  business 
on  their  own  account — hundreds  of  them,  here  in  England 
alone.  Well,  the  fault  is  not  theirs,  but  that  of  the  ortho- 
dox faith — a  religion  for  children.  How,  unaltered,  should 
it  retain  grown  men? 

He  thought  of  the  great  mass  of  modern  clergymen.  If 
they  are  strong  men — real  men — they  revolt  against  it. 
But  for  pride's  sake — rather  than  own  themselves  fools 
from  the  beginning — they  build  up  something  from  the 
crashing  ruin  of  the  thought- f abric ;  desperately  toiling,  as 
black  ants  when  the  storm  has  washed  away  their  city, 
they  strive  to  make  order  in  chaos. 

Christ  was  a  man  like  themselves.  We  can  all  be 
Christ.  God  is  in  us.  God,  the  great  creating  thought,  is 
the  spirit  that  quickens  the  universe.  The  highest  mani- 
festation of  God,  the  living  force,  is  in  the  mind  of  men. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  253 

God's  favourite  abode  or  resting-place  is  to  be  found  in 
that  grey  cerebral  matter  of  a  centralised  nervous  system 
— of  man,  and  of  the  higher  mammals,  perhaps,  also.  For 
you  can't  shut  the  animals  out  of  it  all — you  can't  keep 
the  other  worlds  out  of  it  either.  There  may  be  beings  not 
enormously  dissimilar  to  men,  higher  intelligences  even, 
on  Mars,  on  planets  of  other  suns — in  millions  of  worlds, 
if  you  like.  It  is  really  a  frenzied  effort  to  patch  together 
something  that  will  somehow  hold  water. 

Thus  you  get  from  these  strong  unhappy  men  the  Gospel 
according  to  the  Rev.  J.  Snooks,  Revelations  by  Mr. 
Brown,  The  Law  and  the  Prophets  as  interpreted  by 
Thomas  Nathaniel  Jones,  D.D.  Most  unorthodox!  But 
the  bishops  are  unable,  unwilling  to  interfere;  sympathis- 
ing rather  than  persecuting,  because  they  too  are  in  secret 
revolt. 

And  he  said  to  himself,  "That  old  archbishop  was  an 
unbeliever.  He  scarcely  troubled  to  conceal  the  secret. 
One  could  read  it  in  his  smile  when,  behaving  like  a  hys- 
terical schoolgirl,  I  flopped  down  on  my  knees  and  made 
him  bless  me.  If  the  blessing  hasn't  had  much  effect,  at 
least  I  needn't  blame  him.  He  didn't  palm  it  off  on  me  as 
something  valuable." 

He  thought:  People  like  Walsden,  Verschoyle,  that 
ancient  of  days  at  Sittingbourne,  and  all  down  the  scale 
to  epileptics  like  Elvey,  are  simply  monomaniacs.  But  for 
the  rest,  not  one  clergyman  in  ten  really  believes.  "Never- 
theless, it  is  comforting  for  old  ladies — it  can  do  no  harm." 
In  the  temple  of  their  own  hearts  the  veil  has  been  rent. 
"Notwithstanding,  on  its  merely  human  side,  we  still  con- 
sider it  extremely  beautiful."  They  could  not  say  more 
than  that — not  if  they  examined  their  deepest  convictions 
and  dared  faithfully  to  utter  them. 

Lashing  himself  to  almost  delirious  fury,  he  said,  "Only 
cowards  can  pretend  to  themselves  to  believe.  Only  cow- 
ards can  refuse  the  light  of  truth  that  glimmers  in  every 
man's  brain." 

As  he  thought  of  these  things,  Edward  Churchill  felt 
that  he  would  go  mad,  unless  quickly  he  broke  with  it  all 
and  began  to  forget. 


254  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

Next  morning  he  was  absolutely  worn  out.  It  had  been 
the  most  dreadful  night  that  he  had  ever  passed.  When  he 
looked  back  at  its  hot  rages,  its  brutal  violences,  its  sweep- 
ingly  cruel  accusations  against  numberless  unknown  men 
whose  single-heartedness  he  had  always  hitherto  respected 
and  could  not  now  logically  or  sanely  question,  it  seemed 
to  him  more  like  a  demoniac  possession  than  any  explicable 
nerve  storm.  It  reminded  him  again  of  the  biographical 
fables  of  early  monastic  literature.  Just  such  a  night,  hun- 
dreds of  years  ago,  might  have  served  for  the  culminating 
description  of  a  sorely  tempted  monk  in  his  stone  cell.  He 
has  withstood  all  the  temptations  of  the  senses,  minor  de- 
mons with  their  visions  of  female  seductiveness  can  make 
nothing  of  him;  starved,  flogged,  drained  of  blood,  he 
defies  the  lures  that  appeal  only  to  matter,  and  his  spirit 
remains  triumphant.  So  then  the  Devil  himself  enters 
into  his  mind,  tears  and  claws  at  the  very  foundations  of 
his  strength,  shakes  him  with  remorseless  frenzy  from  sun- 
down to  sunrise. 

He  stayed  indoors  all  day,  and  on  the  following  night  he 
was  able  to  sleep.  On  the  day  after  he  felt  calm,  but 
unspeakably  sad. 

He  thought,  "If  my  loss  of  faith  is  to  be  a  permanent 
loss,  I  have  lost  all  that  made  life  worth  living.  I  am  too 
old  to  begin  again.  I  can  never  readjust  myself  to  the  new 
conditions.  I  shall  commit  suicide,  and  save  all  further 
bother.  No  one  will  miss  me ;  no  one  will  regret  me.  But, 
oh,  how  futile  I  shall  have  proved  myself." 

But  the  faith  might  return.  As  he  knew,  many  priests 
go  through  periods  of  disbelief,  and  then  believe  again. 
Men  who  call  themselves  atheists  during  long  stretches  of 
years  become  devout  and  staunch  Christians.  Scientists 
who  spend  their  lives  in  explaining  everything  find  at  last 
that  they  have  explained  nothing,  cease  to  docket  and  label 
their  incomprehensible  mysteries,  cease  to  inquire,  cease  to 
expect  any  answers,  and  with  empty  receptive  minds  take 
back  the  peaceful  hope  of  knowing  all  in  God's  good  time. 

Perhaps  he,  too,  would  recover  his  belief.  He  deter- 
mined to  say  nothing  as  yet  to  Walsden,  to  continue  work- 


255 

ing  as  long  as  possible,  and  to  trust  that  another  mental 
change  might  come.  But  his  confidence  was  weak. 

Late  on  Sunday  evening  he  went  out  to  St.  Ursula's 
rectory  to  see  the  Verschoyles.  Both  of  them  had  been 
writing  to  him  of  late,  urging  him  not  to  desert  them,  and 
Mrs.  Verschoyle  had  especially  begged  him  to  pay  them  a 
visit  this  afternoon. 

It  was  a  dark,  airless  night,  and  as  he  slowly  made  his 
way  from  the  rectory  gate  through  the  darkness  towards 
the  lighted  window  of  the  porch  he  felt  the  oppression  of 
the  atmosphere  as  well  as  the  dull  weight  on  his  mind.  He 
paused  irresolute,  and  was  more  inclined  to  prowl  about 
the  dark  garden  all  alone  with  his  sad  thoughts  than  to 
enter  a  brightly-lighted  room  and  laugh  and  talk. 

He  found  several  people  in  the  drawing-room,  and  the 
conversation  ran  so  freely  that  he  was  not  called  upon  to 
take  any  large  part  in  it.  He  sat  there  thinking  of  what  this 
room  had  been  to  him  such  a  little  while  ago — his  harbour 
of  refuge,  his  place  of  beauty,  the  pleasant  dwelling-house 
of  faith  and  hope.  All  was  as  it  had  been.  Only  he  had 
changed.  Verschoyle  and  the  young  curates  made  him  sit 
in  the  biggest  arm-chair;  he  was  told  to  smoke;  and  the 
friendly  simple  talk  went  on.  He  was  glad  that  no  con- 
fidences or  brotherly  confessions  were  possible;  but  Mrs. 
Verschoyle  looked  at  him  from  time  to  time  with  quick, 
searching  glances. 

When  he  left,  it  was  she  and  not  Verschoyle  who  came 
out,  and  through  the  hall  with  him. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  putting  her  hand  on  his  arm,  "what's 
the  matter.  Are  you  still  worrying  yourself  about  that 
poor  woman?" 

"No,"  he  said.  And  this  was  true,  for  in  these  last  few 
days  he  had  scarcely  remembered  Lilian's  existence.  He 
had  been  thinking  only  of  himself. 

"Christian,"  she  said,  "tell  me — trust  me."  He  went 
down  the  steps,  and  she  stood  above  him  in  the  light  of  the 
porch.  "Won't  you  tell  me?" 

He  looked  at  her,  but  did  not  speak. 

"Christian,  what  is  it?  What  is  there  in  the  pathway 
now?" 


256  THE  MIRROR  AND.  THE  LAMP 

"It  is  the  Giant  Despair ;  and  this  time  I  shall  not  escape 
from  him." 

And  he  turned  and  went  towards  the  gate. 

"Stay.  I  can't  let  you  go  like  this,  Christian,"  she  called 
after  him,  but  he  would  not  answer.  She  heard  his  foot- 
steps in  the  darkness,  the  gate  opened  and  shut,  and  she 
knew  that  he  had  gone. 


XXXIII 

THROUGHOUT  this  week  the  weather  grew  warmer  and 
enervating;  thunder  was  always  threatening,  but  never 
came;  even  Walsden  complained  that  he  felt  slack,  and 
made  many  disparaging  comparisons  between  the  climate 
of  England  and  that  of  Africa.  Mrs.  Walsden  one  after- 
noon at  tea  had  a  sudden  and  ardent  fancy  for  lettuces, 
which  unfortunately  could  not  be  procured ;  for  Mr.  Grevill 
and  Mr.  Nape,  going  round  the  parish  in  haste,  found  that 
not  a  sprig  of  green  food  remained  uneaten.  The  lettuces 
had  been  devoured,  and  indeed  the  "hokey-pokey"  was 
nearly  all  gone  too.  The  ice  merchants  could  not  supply  it 
quick  enough  or  in  sufficient  bulk  to  meet  the  demand. 
The  whole  parish  of  St.  Bede's  seemed  to  be  either  moist- 
ening its  lips  or  gasping  for  breath. 

Edward  Churchill  still  attended  to  his  work  in  a  hope- 
less mechanical  manner  like  a  sleep-walker  who  walks 
safely  on  a  well-known  round.  But  his  Roman  collar 
galled  him,  his  cossack  stifled  him,  his  biretta  was  as  un- 
comfortable as  a  merry-andrew's  cap  and  bells. 

Twice  Mrs.  Verschoyle  wrote  to  him,  and  once  her  hus- 
band tried  in  vain  to  see  him;  but  he  took  no  notice  either 
of  the  letters  or  the  visit.  He  could  not  act  on  their  well- 
meant  advice.  Mrs.  Verschoyle  implored  him  to  do  a  re- 
treat. "Go  first,"  she  wrote,  "to  Father  Bryan,  and  ask 
if  they  can  receive  you  at  their  Roehampton  House.  You 
know  they  would  be  glad  to  have  you  there,  if  the  place  is 
not  full.  But  of  course  the  summer  retreats  are  now  on. 
If  not  to  Roehampton,  go  somewhere  else.  Father  Bryan 
will  guide  you.  Go  at  once.  I  pray  you,  don't  let  any- 
thing stop  you.  This  is  more  important  than  parish  work, 
however  pressing  that  may  appear." 

No  Verschoyles,  no  Bryans,  no  retreats  could  help  him. 
He  had  passed  beyond  the  reach  of  such  kindly  aid.  It 
mattered  not  where  he  went,  for  everywhere  he  would 
carry  the  same  thoughts  with  him. 

257 


258 

So  the  weeks  dragged  by,  and  it  was  again  Sunday.  He 
felt  an  immense  lassitude  after  the  morning  service;  but 
fortunately  the  heaviest  part  of  the  day's  work  was  now 
finished,  and  he  had  nothing  more  to  do  till  Evensong.  One 
small  duty  might  be  performed  in  the  afternoon,  and  for 
this  purpose  he  relinquished  the  quiet  and  repose  of  Den- 
mark House.  He  wanted  to  see  if  three  children  who  had 
promised  to  attend  the  children's  service  were  keeping 
their  promise;  but  he  did  not  want  to  be  seen  himself,  lest 
he  should  distract  the  attention  of  these  and  other  young 
people,  and  put  out  Mr.  Nape.  Mr.  Nape  conducted  the 
children's  services  remarkably  well,  but  he  was  easily  flus- 
tered, and  had  told  Walsden  that  the  presence  of  his  more 
experienced  colleagues  made  him  nervous  and  self-con- 
scious. 

Churchill  intended,  therefore,  to  go  to  the  organ  gallery 
over  the  west  door,  and  take  a  peep  at  things  from  there. 
As  he  went  up  the  stairs  to  the  gallery  the  first  hymn  be- 
gan, and  he  thought  that  poor  old  Mrs.  Walsden  was  roll- 
ing out  the  music  very  decently.  It  was  the  hymn  about 
faith,  hope,  and  charity — "Therefore  give  us  love." 

There  were  only  two  rows  of  seats  in  this  western  gal- 
lery, and  curtains  on  brass  rods  hung  in  front  of  the  sec- 
ond row,  which  was  level  with  the  organist's  seat.  Churchill 
gently  opened  a  space  between  two  curtains;  then  seated 
himself,  and  leaning  his  chin  on  his  hands,  looked  down 
into  the  church. 

The  three  children  were  there — three  little  faithful 
hearts  proving  true  to  the  promise.  He  was  touched  by 
their  fidelity,  when  he  thought  of  what  they  had  sacrificed 
— the  open  air,  a  street  game,  freedom.  And  the  hymn,  too 
— always  a  favourite — affected  him,  as  sung  by  all  these 
young  voices  in  the  dull,  severe  church.  Moved  by  the 
force  of  habit,  he  prayed  for  his  three.  .  .  .  "Oh,  there- 
fore give  them  love." 

The  music  of  the  hymn  sounded  grandly,  and  when  it 
ceased  he  turned  to  look  at  Mrs.  Walsden.  But  the  player 
was  not  Mrs.  Walsden.  It  was  Lilian. 

She  had  seen  him — he  knew  that  instinctively.  She  was 
stooping  over  the  keys,  showing  him  only  her  profile;  her 
hands  like  white  lilies  fluttering  up  and  down  while  she 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  259 

worked  the  stops,  and  her  whole  drooping  pose  as  of  a 
flower  that  has  been  beaten  by  cruel  storms.  She  was 
playing  the  responses;  pausing,  listening,  glancing  at  the 
reflection  in  the  slanted  looking-glass,  then  playing  again. 

If  he  had  not  yet  fully  measured  the  extent  of  her  power 
over  him,  he  must  do  so  now.  In  a  moment  the  world  had 
changed.  The  church  became  glorious  as  a  cathedral.  She 
was  filling  it  with  heavenly  music;  waves  of  beauty  were 
pouring  out  from  her ;  floods  of  sunlight  that  she  had  sud- 
denly released  fell  upon  flaxen  heads,  and  made  the  chil- 
dren angels.  And  he  thought:  "'Therefore  give  us  love. 
.  .  .  Yes,  this  love  and  no  other.  .  .  .  Take  heaven 
and  the  endless  ages,  and  the  bliss  and  the  rising  scale  of 
supernatural  power  when  our  souls  shall  be  endued  with 
divine  force;  take  all  hope  of  hereafter,  but  while  we  are 
here  and  now,  oh,  give  us  love." 

His  emotion  overwhelmed  him,  so  that  he  sat  limply  as 
he  had  settled  down  under  the  shock  of  surprise  and  de- 
light at  seeing  her. 

When  she  had  done  playing  the  responses  she  looked  at 
him,  and  he  immediately  moved  along  the  seat  to  the  edge 
of  the  keyboard,  and  they  talked  in  a  low  voice. 

"Why  are  you  here?" 

"Mrs.  Walsden  said  it  would  be  convenient  to  her." 

"Yes,  you  are  always  kind.  I  quite  understand.  You 
came  instead  of  her." 

"Yes,  I  came  instead." 

"Have  you  all  the  music  there?  Or  can  I  fetch  anything 
for  you?" 

"No,  it  is  all  here." 

She  played  again;  and  he  sat  watching  her  hands,  the 
delicate  fingers  meekly,  sweetly  toiling,  hurrying  off  the 
keys  to  the  stops  and  back  to  their  labour.  Then  he  looked 
at  her  face — the  lips  just  open,  the  long  eyelashes  half 
raised,  and  the  steady  patient  eyes  never  shifting  from 
their  study  of  the  music  sheet,  the  whole  expression  pains- 
taking. Yes,  painstaking.  Pain  had  been  her  portion.  He 
looked  once  more  at  her  hands — they  fascinated  him  ; 
never  still,  now  here,  now  there,  untiring. 

While  playing  the  last  verse  of  a  second  hymn  she  spoke, 


260  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

but  without  shifting  her  eyes.  "Don't  watch  my  hands, 
please.  You  are  making  me  nervous." 

And  presently  she  turned  and  smiled.  And  her  smile 
was  like  a  sunbeam  that  changed  to  a  knife  as  it  entered 
his  breast — seeming  to  make  his  heart  bleed  and  the  hot 
stifling  blood  fill  his  lungs,  and  rise  to  his  throat  to  choke 
him.  So  exquisitely  pathetic,  in  its  trembling,  flickering 
beauty,  and  its  piteous  appeal :  saying  to  him,  "You  see,  I 
am  long-suffering ;  but  I  am  weak.  Be  merciful  and  kind." 

It  was  his  own  thought  that  had  made  all  the  pain  really. 
He  had  thought,  "Perhaps  that  is  how  she  looks  at  her 
husband,  when  his  rage  is  breaking  loose  because  her  weak- 
ness tempts  him ;  when  she  says,  Til  do  anything  you  like. 
Oh,  don't,  don't  beat  me.'  " 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  service  he  asked  her  what  she 
had  to  do  next. 

"I  am  going  home." 

"Shall  I  come  with  you — some  of  the  way?" 

"No." 

"Are  you  expected  home?" 

"No." 

"Is  your  husband  away?" 

"Yes." 

"When  does  he  return?" 

"Not  for  three  days.     He  only  left  yesterday." 

"Then  there's  no  hurry  for  you  to  get  back,  since  you 
are  alone.  Come  in  to  tea  at  the  vicarage." 

"No,  I  won't  do  that." 

"They  would  love  to  see  you." 

"Yes,  but  I  am  rather  tired.     I  don't  feel  up  to  talking." 

"Come  to  Denmark  House,  and  let  me  give  you  some  tea 
there.  You  can  sit  and  rest — and  it  will  be  cooler  there." 

"It  has  been  very  hot  to-day." 

"Yes.    Will  you  do  what  I  ask?" 

"You  told  me  not  to  go  there  again." 

"I  know.  But  now  I  ask  you  to  come.  Yes,  you  must 
please  do  that.  You  can  lie  down  and  rest  after  tea,  if  you 
like.  Mrs.  Clough  will  be  there  to  look  after  you." 

She  did  not  make  any  reply.  She  was  fingering  the 
silent  keys. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  261 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "we'll  wait  here  until  every  one  has  gone 
out.  Then  we  will  go." 

They  remained,  talking  of  things  about  which  neither 
was  greatly  interested — Mr.  Nape's  excellent  manner  with 
the  children,  the  rusty  condition  of  the  curtain  rods,  the 
weather.  Then  they  went  side  by  side  through  the  horrid, 
airless  street  to  his  house,  where  he  led  her  up  to  the  sit- 
ting-room, procured  tea,  and  waited  upon  her. 

Then  they  sat  in  the  window  seat  above  the  plane  tree 
branches,  talking  quietly,  with  long  intervals  of  silence. 

At  last  she  spoke  of  her  husband,  saying  that  he  was 
dissatisfied  with  the  results  of  his  tour  in  the  south  of 
England.  He  had  been  there  in  London  throughout  the 
past  week ;  and  after  his  return  next  Wednesday  he  would 
probably  be  here  for  the  rest  of  the  summer. 

"Won't  he  take  you — or  arrange  for  you  to  have  some 
sort  of  holiday?" 

"I  don't  think  so;"  and  she  turned  away  her  head.  "I 
am  not  complaining.  Truly  I  have  obeyed  you.  I  am 
bearing  everything  in — in  the  spirit  of  submission." 

He  knew  that  he  ought  not  to  ask  her  even  indirectly 
how  she  had  been  treated  during  this  week,  yet  knew  also 
that  he  would  do  so. 

"Apart  from  all  that — the  religious  part,  is  life  better 
with  you?" 

"No,  just  as  difficult  as  ever ;"  and  there  was  a  little  sob 
in  her  voice.  She  got  up  at  once.  "I  must  go  now ;"  and 
she  stood  looking  at  him. 

"Lilian." 

He  had  put  his  arms  round  her,  and  he  drew  her  down 
upon  his  knees. 

"My  bruised  lily.  My  poor  darling.  Oh,  what  are  we 
to  do?" 

So  they  remained,  silent,  clinging,  locked  in  each  other's 
arms ;  she  with  eyelids  closed  upon  her  tears  and  a  cold  wet 
face  that  did  not  warm  to  his  kisses ;  he  half  fainting  with 
pity  and  love.  It  was  like  an  embrace  of  despair,  and  not 
the  strong  passionate  grasping  at  joy  or  hope  of  two  lovers 
who  kiss  for  the  first  time.  They  were  both  so  miserable 
that  they  could  no  longer  resist  betraying  their  misery.  The 
paramount  need  of  each  was  the  forgetting  of  pain;  they 


262  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

wanted  to  destroy  the  past  and  had  no  thought  of  opening 
the  future;  they  were  as  innocent  of  base  desire  as  un- 
happy children  who  are  left  alone  in  a  darkened  room  after 
suffering  a  cruel  punishment,  and  who  instinctively  link 
hands  and  try  to  comfort  each  other. 

But  soon  she  became  ashamed,  and  struggled  to  release 
herself.  He  set  her  free  at  once,  and  they  sat  side  by  side 
in  the  window  seat  for  a  long  time  without  speaking. 

"I  had  better  go." 

"No,"  he  said.  "Wait.  Let  me  think  a  little;"  and  he 
took  her  hand,  and  held  it. 

"I  had  better  go,"  she  said  again.  "I  ought  not  to  have 
come.  It  is  why  you  told  me  not  to—  You  were  afraid 
of  this  happening." 

"Yes.  .  .  .  And  now  it  has  happened,  nothing  can 
undo  it.  It  is  the  end  of  all  pretences.  You  feel  that  your- 
self, don't  you?" 

She  sat  with  her  head  drooping,  and  never  lifted  her 
eyes.  Her  hand  lay  passive  in  his. 

"It  is  wicked  and  dreadful,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  think  it  is.  It  would  be  dreadful 
if  we  treated  it  lightly.  Just  now  I  feel  stunned,  and  I 
cannot  think  connectedly.  By  to-morrow  I  shall  know  how 
we  ought  to  act." 

"It  is  my  fault.  It  is  always  the  woman  who  is  to 
blame." 

"No,  a  million  times  no.  If  there  is  blame,  it  is  all 
mine;"  and  again  he  put  his  arms  round  her,  and  held  her 
close  against  his  heart. 

Time  passed,  and  the  clanging  bell  of  St.  Bede's  began 
to  sound  its  ugly  note  for  Evensong.  The  faithful  were 
being  summoned  to  worship,  but  one  of  God's  messengers 
had  lost  himself.  It  seemed  as  if  there  might  be  a  congre- 
gation waiting  for  a  sermon,  and  no  one  ready  to  preach 
it.  Nape  would  have  to  read  something  to  them,  or 
Walsden  could  get  up  and  gossip  about  the  jungle. 

But  then  finally  Churchill  heard  the  bell,  and  sprang  to 
his  feet. 

"I  must  leave  you  now,  Lilian.  You  will  hear  from  me 
— I  will  see  you — some  time  to-morrow — or  next  day  at 
the  latest.  I'll  arrange — I'll  plan — I'll  decide  what  is  best. 


[THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  263 

And  don't  fear,  my  darling.  Be  brave  now  in  another 
way." 

And  he  ran  through  the  streets  to  the  place  of  his  pro- 
fessional duty. 

He  was  just  in  time  to  pull  on  his  surplice  and  to  follow 
Walsden  and  the  choir  as  they  marched  out  of  the  vestry. 

He  performed  his  part  of  the  service  without  knowing 
what  he  said  and  scarcely  knowing  where  he  was.  Then 
came  the  sermon,  and  he  had  to  pull  himself  together.  He 
tried  to  conceal  all  signs  of  internal  trouble  and  perhaps 
succeeded.  But  the  words  that  even  remotely  implied 
faith  stuck  in  his  throat,  and  made  him  stammer  and 
cough.  The  crisis  was  over  now.  He  knew  that  he  did 
not  believe;  and  he  seemed  to  know  also,  with  absolute 
certainty  that  he  would  never  believe  again  on  this  side  of 
the  tomb. 

He  went  straight  home  to  his  rooms,  and,  walking  back- 
wards and  forwards  between  the  bedroom  and  the  sitting- 
room,  he  took  off  his  black  coat,  then  the  black  waistcoat, 
then  the  Roman  collar.  Beneath  there  was  a  grey  flannel 
shirt,  and  he  opened  this  widely  at  the  neck,  as  though  the 
stiff  white  collar  had  still  been  there  oppressing  and  chafing 
him.  Then  he  put  on  a  shabby  old  Norfolk  jacket,  and 
stood  looking  at  the  discarded  garments  as  they  lay  where 
he  had  tossed  them. 

He  thought.  "They  formed  the  modern,  up-to-date  garb 
of  slavery  and  superstitution.  In  that  sense  they  are  the 
Devil's  livery,  and  I  vow  and  swear  that  I  will  never  wear 
it  again." 

Mrs.  Clough  presently  brought  him  his  bread-and-cheese 
supper,  and  he  ate  with  appetite.  When  he  went  to  bed  he 
slept  quietly  and  profoundly.  Indeed  he  had  not  enjoyed 
such  dreamless,  refreshing  slumber  since  that  night  years 
and  years  ago  after  he  had  just  vowed  to  give  his  life  to 
all  those  things  which  he  had  now  abandoned  for  ever. 


XXXIV 

CHURCHILL  was  up  betimes,  and  after  a  hearty  breakfast 
he  went  into  what  was  called  "the  old  gentleman's  room." 
Mr.  Philbrick,  who  was  sitting  up  in  bed  and  smoking, 
looked  at  him  with  surprise  and  spoke  with  affectionate 
interest. 

"I  awmost  took  you  for  a  stranger,  sir.  Never  seen 
you  in  that  costume  before." 

Churchill  was  wearing  the  homespun  jacket  and  a  pair 
of  grey  flannel  trousers,  with  an  old  college  scarf  tied 
loosely  round  his  neck  and  a  straw  hat  on  the  back  of  his 
head. 

"I'm  off  for  a  day's  tramp,"  he  said,  smiling.  "I  want 
to  leave  the  pavements  behind  me  for  a  few  hours,  and  get 
among  some  open  fields  where  one  can  sit  down  and 
think  quietly." 

"Very  nice,  too." 

"And  how  are  you,  Mr.  Philbrick?" 

"All  the  better  for  seeing  you,  sir.  You  haven't  hon- 
oured me  much  latterly." 

"No,  I  have  been  very  neglectful — but  really  I  couldn't 
help  it." 

"Good  gracious,  no,  sir,  how  could  you?  I  knew  that 
well  enough.  I  says  to  meself,  'He's  up  to  his  eyes  in  'is 
'oly  duties,  or  he'd  give  me  the  pleasure  same  as  he  used.' 
All  I  meant  to  say  was  I've  missed  our  bits  of  prayer,  an* 
the  readin's  of  them  collicks.  An'  if  you  felt  disposed  to 
favour  me  now  with  a  minnit  or  two  of  it,  well " 

"Philbrick,  I  can't  pray  with  you.  I  can  never  pray  with 
you  again." 

"Is  that  so?"  And  Mr.  Philbrick  took  his  pipe  from  his 
mouth.  "Always  so  busy  'ence forth,  sir?" 

"No.  I  may  as  well  tell  you  the  truth.  You'd  hear  it 
soon  enough,  anyhow ;"  and  Churchill  put  his  hand  on  Mr. 
Philbrick's  shoulder  and  spoke  with  great  earnestness.  "I 
ask,  I  beg — and  I  honestly  advise  that  you  won't  allow  this 

264 


265 

thing  to  make  the  slightest  difference  to  you.  But  I  can't 
pray,  because  the  truth  is  I  don't  believe  in  it  any  more." 

"Don't  believe  no  more!  Well,  I'm  blowed.  What 
next?  Why  not?" 

"To  me  it's  unbelievable." 

'Too  thick,  eh?  Well,  you  know  that's  what  I  always 
said.  Wants  a  bit  of  swallowing!  But  you  was  ?o  sure 
as  if  you'd  been  there  and  seen  it  all  done."  The  old  fel- 
low smoked  reflectively;  then  pointed  with  the  mouthpiece 
of  his  pipe  and  went  on  talking.  "I'm  sorry  you  should 
be  so  upset,  sir.  Dessay  it  weighs  on  your  mind  like. 
Bound  to  do,  sir;"  and  as  he  looked  at  Churchill  his  eyes 
were  screwed  up  so  small  that  they  almost  disappeared. 
"Yes,  I'm  more'n  sorry  you  should  be  upset." 

The  old  chap  was  not  upset  himself.  Really,  either  way, 
what  did  it  matter?  As  he  used  to  say,  "I  like  these  relig- 
ious people.  They're  right.  Right  all  through.  Never 
served  you  a  dirty  trick."  But  he  liked  the  people  them- 
selves— for  their  humanity,  polite  manners,  kindness — and 
just  took  their  creed  on  trust.  Judge  of  a  tree  by  its  fruit. 
If  the  thing  was  good  enough  for  Mr.  Walsden  and  all 
the  other  kind  gentlemen,  it  was  good  enough  for  him. 

Churchill,  rejoicing  that  his  announcement  had  left  Mr. 
Philbrick  so  philosophically  calm,  started  on  the  day's 
outing.  Life  and  love  seemed  to  call  him;  all  that  he  had 
denied  to  himself  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  him ;  but  he 
must  make  plans  for  the  future  soberly  and  methodically. 
In  that  smiling  future  there  were  two  people,  and  one  of 
them  was  of  infinitely  greater  importance  than  the  other. 
He  himself  felt  safe  and  content ;  but  she  was  made  of 
more  delicate  stuff,  and  happiness  that  came  to  her  tainted 
with  disgrace  might  for  a  time,  even  for  a  long  time,  be 
only  a  loosening  of  the  chains  and  not  their  breaking.  He 
must  act  very  wisely  and  cautiously  for  her  sake.  Oh, 
what  an  idiotic  fancy  it  had  been  that  a  beneficent  God 
could  take  pleasure  in  priests  tormenting  themselves  and 
in  women  remaining  wives  in  homes  from  which  love  has 
long  since  fled. 

He  struck  northwards,  riding  on  an  omnibus  as  far  as 
it  went,  then  taking  a  train,  eager  to  shake  off  the  smoke 
and  dust  and  noise  of  the  town  as  quickly  as  he  could ;  and 


266  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

all  the  way  he  thought  of  the  weakness  of  Christ's  recorded 
teaching  in  relation  to  life  and  to  love.  The  preposterous 
altruism  too!  If  a  man  takes  your  coat,  give  him  your 
cloak.  Resist  not  evil.  It  is  an  insane  immolation  of  self 
— as  bad  intrinsically  as  fakirs  stabbing  themselves  or 
anchorites  warping  their  spines  in  caves  scarcely  large 
enough  for  a  fair-sized  dog. 

And  yet  he  had  preached  it  to  Lilian.  There  could  be 
no  escape  from  her  brute-beast;  she  was  to  go  back  and 
turn  the  other  cheek  to  his  merciless  hand;  she  was  to 
solace  him  in  his  drunkenness,  be  a  submissive  slave  be- 
neath his  cruel  blows  and  his  nauseating  embraces. 
Churchill's  heart  turned  sick  with  pity  for  her  and  scorn  of 
himself  for  telling  her  to  drain  the  cup  of  bitterness  to  the 
dregs.  When  she  appealed  for  his  aid  he  had  played  at 
being  St.  Anthony — not  tempted  of  the  devil,  but  driving 
away  an  angel  who  had  come  to  him.  To  act  so  was  to 
forget  that  he  was  a  man.  No  man  would  let  her  go  on 
suffering. 

He  got  out  of  the  train  at  a  roadside  station,  and,  al- 
though still  only  ten  or  a  dozen  miles  from  St.  Bede's, 
found  himself  apparently  in  the  depths  of  the  country.  The 
sky  was  clean  and  high,  the  odour  of  the  earth  was  pene- 
tratingly sweet,  the  landscape  delighted  and  refreshed  his 
eyes;  and  he  felt  like  a  man  who,  after  being  condemned 
by  his  doctors  as  a  hopeless  case,  is  miraculously  restored 
to  health  and  energy. 

He  lay  sunning  himself  by  green  hedgerows,  strolled 
through  little  woods  where  the  light  and  shadow  mingled 
and  made  an  atmosphere  like  limpid  water,  crossed  wide 
commons  where  the  gorse  made  waves  of  yellow  flame; 
he  listened  to  the  song  of  larks,  watched  rabbits  playing 
on  the  nibbled  grass,  saturated  himself  with  air  and  sun- 
light and  incessantly  changing  beauty.  All  round  him, 
near  and  far,  life  both  visible  and  invisible  was  active,  the 
whole  world  was  in  motion,  and  heaven  swung  serenely  to  its 
glorious,  undeviating  rhythm.  And  all  that  he  saw,  all  that  he 
imagined  of  Nature's  magnificent  panorama — these  peaceful 
summer  fields,  or  winter's  darkness  or  storm,  the  march  of 
the  seasons  with  seed-time  and  harvest,  black  thunderclouds 
and  rainbow  arcs,  growth,  ripeness,  and  decay — all,  all 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  267 

seemed  to  say  to  him,  "This  is,  has  been,  and  ever  will  be 
the  only  manifestation  made  to  humankind  by  what  they  call 
God." 

The  health-giving  hours  glided  by;  it  was  afternoon, 
and  he  heard  the  sound  of  church  bells,  rung  gaily.  Pres- 
ently he  saw  the  church,  a  delightful  little  toy,  with  a 
wooden  cupola  on  its  squat  tower  and  a  mantle  of  un- 
trimmed  ivy  hiding  its  walls.  He  went  down  sloping 
ground  towards  it,  and  found  a  rural  scene  as  pretty  as 
anything  in  a  book  or  a  picture.  On  one  side  of  the 
churchyard  there  were  the  stretching  park-lands  of  some 
nobleman's  seat,  cattle  dotted  among  hawthorns,  distant 
copses,  and  a  ridge  of  hills  all  vague  and  melting  in  the 
sunlight;  on  the  other  side  one  had  a  glimpse  of  a  quite 
adorable  village,  with  old  houses  and  gardens  set  far 
back  from  a  white  roadway  that  culminated  in  an  open 
green.  And  across  the  green  and  along  the  dusty  road 
came  villagers  in  their  Sunday  best,  two  and  two,  carry- 
ing nosegays,  like  the  chorus  people  of  a  comic  opera.  It 
was  a  rustic  wedding. 

Churchill  went  into  the  church  and  watched  the  cere- 
mony. 

Only  the  bride  believed  really.  No  one  else  fti  all  the 
church.  You  could  hear  it  in  their  voices.  Tlje  parson,  a 
nice  old  fellow,  had  humanity  and  infinite  kindness  in  his 
tone  as  he  talked  to  them,  speaking  the  sacred  words;  but 
no  belief.  Neither  he  nor  any  one  else  believed.  Only  in 
the  bride's  eyes  and  her  shy  whisper  was  there  the  true 
childlike  belief;  and  Churchill  thought,  "She  is  a  child. 
This  crowning  of  her  love  is  to  her  of  such  infinite  im- 
portance that  there  is  nothing  unbelievable  in  the  notion 
of  God  Himself  desiring  to  be  present  at  the  ceremony. 
She  takes  the  whole  thing  with  desperate  seriousness.  But 
the  others  are  all  easy  and  jovial — thinking  about  the 
good  fare  that  is  soon  to  be  eaten,  about-  the  hired  fly, 
about  anything." 

And  indeed,  he  thought,  as  he  studied  the  faces,  would 
it  not  be  absurd  to  expect  any  sign  of  real  belief?  How 
could  they  come  trooping  in  so  comfortably,  if  for  a  mo- 
ment they  believed  that  it  was  God's  house;  that  here,  in 
this  frail  structure,  was  lodged  the  mysterious  force  that 


268  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

governs  and  controls  surrounding  nature,  that  created  the 
universe  and  supplies  the  power  that  keeps  it  in  motion? 
He  thought  of  such  people  in  an  electric  power-house,  the 
engine-room  of  an  Atlantic  liner,  or  even  in  a  small  vil- 
lage saw-mill.  Look  at  them  now,  and  as  a  contrast  im- 
agine their  aspect  and  demeanour  under  those  other  con- 
ditions, when  they  do  believe  in  the  power — when  they 
know  that,  hidden  but  terribly  near,  the  death-dealing  force 
is  really  there.  They  would  scarcely  venture  in  at  the 
door;  they  would  not  budge,  they  would  not  dare  to 
breathe  freely,  because  of  their  fear  and  awe  and  wonder. 
And  that  is  just  how  they  would  act  here,  in  this  power- 
house, if  for  a  moment  they  believed. 

His  mind  steadied  itself  during  the  long  silent  day.  He 
ate  a  little  food  towards  evening,  when  sadness  had  re- 
turned to  the  air;  and  as  he  walked  home,  already — like 
the  busy  insect  that  must  build  again  each  time  that  its 
stronghold  is  destroyed — he  was  shaping  something  from 
the  wreck  of  the  old  thoughts. 

Altruism — yes,  but  rational  altruism.  Pity  for  others; 
much  love  for  others ;  the  golden  rule — with  manly  limita- 
tions. Do  as  you  would  be  done  by.  Don't  ask  too  much 
from  others,  or  want  others  to  do  more  than  as  a  respon- 
sible man  you  ought  to  ask ;  and  be  sure  that  you  need  not 
do  it  yourself,  should  they  ask  you. 

Not  materialism.  That  is  impossible.  We  have  lived 
beyond  it.  The  lamp  and  the  mirror  in  each  man  render 
it  impossible.  Till  the  mirror  showed  one  one's  spiritual 
self,  selfishness  as  of  the  beasts  that  do  not  know  them- 
selves was  still  possible.  But  when  the  lamp-flame  began 
to  be  fed  with  thought  and  memory  made  the  mirror,  in- 
tangible things  were  not  less  real  than  solid  substance; 
to-day  could  no  longer  wipe  out  yesterday;  remorse  be- 
came as  deadly  as  death  itself.  What  the  mirror  shows 
must  be  fair  to  look  on,  or  we  cannot  be  happy. 

He  had  been  upon  his  feet  for  many  hours,  but  he 
walked  without  any  sense  of  fatigue.  He  was  strong  and 
free.  He  was  a  sick  man  come  to  life  again;  he  had 
burst  the  death  shrouds  of  superstition,  escaped  from  the 
thought-tomb,  and  returned  to  the  light  of  day.  He  felt  no 
fear  and  no  regret ;  he  was  troubled  by  no  doubt  even.  He 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  269 

would  never  feel  that  in  abandoning  his  religious  faith 
he  had  also  lost  his  ethical  guide ;  he  needed  nothing  beyond 
that  which  was  left  to  him;  he  could  trust  to  the  Mirror 
and  the  Lamp. 

The  evening  wore  on,  and  it  was  as  dark  as  it  would  be 
between  now  and  dawn.  Nothing  in  the  landscape  was 
hidden,  but  all  objects  had  changed;  greyness  and  mys- 
tery threw  veils  upon  the  commonest  things  and  made  them 
fine.  As  he  climbed  over  high  ground  and  a  wide  view 
opened  out  before  him,  he  was  struck  by  the  fantastic 
aspect  of  this  northward  approach  to  London.  He  looked 
down  upon  strangely-shaped  mounds  and  holes  that  one 
might  have  imagined  to  be  the  work  of  giants;  and  soon 
the  giants'  playthings  could  be  vaguely  distinguished — the 
black  round  entrance  of  a  tunnel,  little  trains  with  red 
tail-lights,  viaducts,  signal  lanterns.  Further  on  there 
were  gasometers,  water  towers,  a  network  of  broadening 
railways;  all  beautiful  and  fantastic  in  the  summer  night, 
with  white  smoke  like  fallen  clouds  that  flashed  into  flame 
and  faded;  while  deep  down  in  shadowy  roadways  the 
trams  resembled  lamplit  houses  rolling  awav  from  their 
foundations,  or  if  one  saw  their  dorsal  fin,  reminded  one 
of  golden  fish  gliding  in  black  water.  Far  ahead  the  vast 
town  illuminated  the  sky — a  sleepless,  flaming  city  over 
which  night  itself  may  not  hover.  And  above  the  wide- 
spread fiery  glow,  to  be  felt  rather  than  seen,  an  illimitable 
void — the  pathless  tracts  of  space;  worlds  without  end, 
purposely  scattered  with  ordered  plan,  or  brushed  like  seed 
pearls  and  never  missed  from  the  embroidered  skirts  of 
measureless  majesty ;  solar  systems  mightier  than  our  own, 
millions  of  them,  each  narrowed  to  one  small  speck  of 
feeble  radiance,  to  serve  as  guiding  points  by  which  our 
mortal  souls  may  wing  their  way  towards  the  heavenly 
home?  Is  it  not  palpably  childish? 

And  once  more  he  thought  of  the  doctrine  of  the  Atone- 
ment. Ants  might  have  entertained  some  such  vainglori- 
ous dream — say  the  biggest  of  ant-heaps  eating  the  flesh 
from  the  bones  of  a  dead  man,  with  their  tiny  myriad  teeth 
picking  a  skeleton  bare  and  white  in  the  sunshine,  and 
thinking,  "This  god  came  down  on  earth  amongst  us  and 


270  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

we  devoured  him."     But  that  men — not  ants — should  thus 
vaingloriously  dream! 

After  another  mile  or  two  he  had  reached  the  outskirts 
of  the  town ;  and  here  he  got  into  a  tram  and  rode  for  the 
rest  of  the  way  home.  It  was  not  yet  eleven  o'clock,  and 
before  going  to  bed  he  determined  to  write  to  his  vicar. 

"Mv  DEAR  WALSDEN: 

"For  some  time  I  have  ceased  to  believe  in  the 
Christian  revelation,  and  now  I  have  no  choice  but  to 
tell  you  that,  etc.,  etc." 

A  difficult  communication — because  he  knew  that  it  would 
cause  pain  to  a  man  of  whom  he  was  genuinely  fond;  but 
it  had  to  be  made  now  without  further  delay ;  and  soon  he 
had  finished  writing,  and  had  sealed  the  envelope  that 
contained  it.  He  thought  he  would  carry  it  round  to  the 
vicarage  and  leave  it  there — a  bombshell  for  poor  old 
Walsden's  breakfast-table  to-morrow  morning;  and  he 
would  have  done  this,  had  not  the  housekeeper  come  up- 
stairs to  ask  if  he  had  seen  the  letter  from  Mrs.  Vickers 
that  was  waiting  for  him  on  the  mantelpiece. 

"You  came  in  so  quiet  I  didn't  hear  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Clough.  "There  it  is.  She  said  you  was  to  have  it  at 
once." 

"How  long  ago?" 

"About  an  hour.  She  came  mid-day,  and  I  told  her  you 
was  gone  for  the  day.  Then  she  was  here  again  this  even- 
ing and  seemed  dreadful  upset  at  not  finding  you — so  I  let 
her  write  at  your  desk.  I  asked  her  if  it  was  anything  I 
could  do — with  the  tickets  or  what  not;  but  she  said  it 
was  you  she  wanted  to  speak  to." 

"All  right.     I'll  attend  to  it." 

The  letter  was  simply  a  cry  for  help.  She  said  that  her 
husband  returned  unexpectedly  yesterday  afternoon.  He 
was  displeased  by  her  absence;  he  forced  her  to  confess 
that  she  had  been  with  Churchill;  he  became  angry — and 
he  had  ill-treated  her  worse  than  ever. 

Churchill  rushed  downstairs  and  out  of  the  house.     He 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  271 

did  not  have  another  thought  of  Walsden,  of  his  deter- 
mination to  conduct  matters  cautiously,  of  the  necessity  of 
avoiding  scandal.  He  was  wild  with  rage;  and  if  he 
thought  at  all,  it  was  of  how  most  swiftly  he  could  reach 
that  far-off  house  that  held  the  woman  he  loved  and  the 
man  who  had  been  knocking  her  about. 


XXXV 

LAMPLIGHT  showed  from  the  two  windows  of  their  liv- 
ing-room. Churchill,  who  had  run  for  the  last  half-mile, 
stood  close  to  the  windows  listening  while  he  recovered 
breath.  He  heard  the  man's  voice,  a  deep-toned  growl  at 
intervals,  and  he  felt  sure  that  Lilian  was  there  also. 

"My  sweetheart,"  he  said  to  himself,  "did  you  think  I 
had  deserted  you?" 

Then  he  rang  the  door-bell,  keeping  his  ringer  on  the 
button  so  that  the  bell  rang  unceasingly  till  the  door  was 
opened. 

"Hullo,"  said  the  master  of  the  house  angrily.  "What 
the  deuce  do  you  mean? — Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?  This  is  a 
queer  hour  to " 

"Where's  your  wife?"  said  Churchill.  Pushing  back  the 
door,  he  had  entered  the  hall,  and  he  turned  to  the  two 
steps  that  led  down  to  the  large  room.  "Lilian,  are  you 
there?  Lilian,  I  have  come  to  you." 

Vickers  gave  an  oath  and  followed  him.  "Who  the  devil 
authorised  you  to  call  her  Lilian?  Look  here,  my  friend, 
you  and  I  will  have  to  understand  each  other.  Yes,  by 
God — and  about  time  too." 

"I'll  talk  to  you  directly,"  said  Churchill.  "We'll  have 
an  understanding.  Yes,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  want  of  you 
directly."  He  spoke  in  a  curiously  artificial  manner,  his 
tone  rather  high-pitched  and  hurried,  finding  it  difficult  to 
select  his  words,  and  so  preoccupied  with  thought  of  Lilian 
that  everything  said  by  her  husband  seemed  for  the  mo- 
ment worrying  and  irrelevant. 

There  was  a  lamp  on  the  piano,  and  another  on  the  cen- 
tral table.  The  table  was  covered  with  account  books 
and  papers,  and  here  Lilian  had  been  sitting,  hard  at  work, 
it  seemed,  as  secretary  or  amanuensis  for  her  husband.  She 
stood  now  close  to  the  table,  trembling,  with  her  hands 
pressed  to  her  bosom. 

Churchill  went  straight  to  her,  put  his  arm  round  her 

272 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  273 

waist,  and  gently  drew  her  from  the  table  towards  the  door. 
"Get  your  hat  and  jacket,"  he  whispered,  "and  wait  for 
me  in  the  hall.  I  couldn't  come  before.  My  darling,  I 
was  late — your  letter  was  waiting  for  me.  It's  all  right 
now.  I  have  come — at  last.  Just  get  your  hat,  and  wait 
for  me  out  there." 

But  she  clung  to  him,  terrified.  Her  husband  barred 
the  way. 

"Stand  aside,"  said  Churchill. 

"Are  you  mad?"  said  Vickers. 

"Let  her  pass,  I  tell  you;"  and  Churchill  began  to  stam- 
mer. "I — I — suppose  you,  you,  don't  think  it  necessary 
for  her  to  hear  all  I — I'm  going  to  say  to  you." 

"No,"  said  Vickers,  with  another  oath,  and  he  stood 
aside.  "Lilian,  you  may  go.  Yes,  you  are  to  go  up- 
stairs to  bed.  Go  to  bed  at  once;"  and  he  put  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  moved  across  to  the  table,  and  sat  down. 

"Of  course  you're  not  to  go  to  bed,"  said  Churchill. 
"Go  up  and  fetch  your  hat  if  it's  up  there,  Lilian.  Then 
wait  outside  the  door."  And  then  he  saw  her  face  in  the 
full  light  that  fell  upon  it  from  the  lamp  on  the  piano.  Her 
eyelids  were  swollen  by  much  weeping,  her  lips  quivered 
and  twitched,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  saw  a  tell-tale 
mark — a  broad  reddened  patch  on  the  white  face.  The 
man  had  hit  her  perhaps  with  his  open  hand — or  the  back 
of  his  hand — as  they  sat  at  the  table,  while  she  was  humbly 
slaving  for  him.  Obviously  it  had  not  been  a  blow  from 
the  fist.  No,  just  a  buffet,  a  smack  on  the  cheek — a  hint 
or  reminder  of  more  serious  punishment. 

And,  at  the  sight  of  this  mark,  Churchill  was  swept 
over  the  final  outermost  boundaries  of  reasoned  thought, 
and  dropped  far  down  into  the  region  of  simple  primitive 
instinct.  He  did  not  know  what  next  he  would  say  or  do. 
Hence  onward  for  some  time  the  words  and  the  acts  bub- 
bled forth  spontaneously.  His  voice  was  another  person's, 
and  he  heard  it  with  a  deep  throb  of  satisfaction.  What 
the  voice  said  was  fine,  exactly  what  he  would  have  wished 
it  to  say  had  he  been  prompting  it  with  the  utmost  care. 

"Yes,  now  for  our  little  understanding."  He  had  swung 
round  on  his  heel  and  was  back  near  the  table,  stooping 


274  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

down  that  he  might  stare  into  the  wrathful  glitter  of  his 
enemy's  eyes. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  of  me?" 

"I  want  your  wife  of  you;  and  I  mean  to  take  her." 

"I'll  not  let  any — parson  come  between  me  and  my  wife." 

"I'm  not  a — parson.  I'm  a  man,  and  I'm  going  to  see 
which  is  the  better  man,  you  or  I." 

Lilian  had  not  left  the  room.  She  stood  on  the  upper 
step  of  the  doorway,  looking  at  them,  talking  to  them, 
uttering  implorations  that  were  like  cries.  So  far  as 
Churchill  was  concerned,  she  had  temporarily  ceased  to 
exist;  he  did  not  hear  her,  he  was  not  aware  that  she 
remained  within  sight  and  sound;  but  now,  terrified,  des- 
perate, she  came  down  the  steps  and  clung  to  him  again. 

"Take  me  away  before  he  prevents  you.  For  God's 
sake  don't  stay  any  longer.  You  don't  know  what  he  is. 
He'll  kill  you.  Oh,  come  now." 

Churchill  shook  his  arm  free,  dragged  her  with  him  to 
the  door,  and  pushed  her  through  it  into  the  hall.  Then 
he  shut  the  door  in  her  face,  and  bolted  it.  Finding  the 
bolt  ready  on  the  door  was  relief  and  joy.  She  was  feebly 
beating  against  the  other  side  of  the  door  and  wailing 
and  calling;  but  she  could  not  interrupt  him.  Once  more 
she  ceased  to  exist.  He  and  his  enemy  were  alone. 

He  stood  in  front  of  Vickers,  looking  at  his  eyes,  his 
great  neck  and  shoulders,  and  the  stubble  on  his  ugly  glis- 
tening jowl;  feeling  an  ecstasy  of  anger  and  hatred,  and 
rejoicing  in  these  sensations ;  glad  that  he  hated  with  such 
intensity,  drawing  comfort  and  ease  from  the  fiery  rage. 

"Look  here,"  said  Vickers,  without  moving  from  his 
chair,  "I  think  you  must  have  gone  mad." 

"No,  I  have  come  to  my  senses." 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  to  fight  with  you — unless  you  force 
me ;  but,  so  help  me,  if  I  do " 

"Yes,  you'll  fight,"  said  Churchill.  "I'll  force  you— 
you  dirty  blackguard."  And  there  was  keen  delight,  an 
exaltation  as  of  strong  drink,  in  the  words — the  words  of 
that  common  voice  of  instinct  that  needs  no  prompting. 
"You  can  hit  your  wife.  Well,  hit  me.  You  hit  her  face 
just  now.  You  dog — like  that;"  and  he  hit  him  with  his 
open  hand.  "Like  that,"  and  he  hit  him  again  across  the 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  275 

lips.  The  feel  of  the  man's  gross  flesh  beneath  his  hand 
sent  thrills  of  delight  through  and  through  his  brain. 

Next  instant  they  were  at  it  hammer  and  tongs,  blind 
with  fury,  not  guarding  or  dodging,  giving  themselves  to 
the  rapture  of  battle  as  completely  as  two  wild  beasts  could 
have  done. 

Thus  they  fought,  fiercely  and  badly,  in  such  a  hunger 
to  get  at  each  other  closer  and  closer  that  neither  allowed 
himself  a  chance  of  doing  real  work.  The  room  was 
large,  and  yet  they  seemed  to  be  using  the  whole  floor 
space  as  alternately  they  pressed  their  attacks;  furniture 
was  being  knocked  over,  though  they  still  kept  on  their 
feet ;  a  fallen  chair  was  a  danger  that  both  understood  and 
automatically  avoided.  And  throughout  the  noise  of  these 
first  rough  bouts  the  woman  outside  the  door  continued 
to  wail  and  beat  the  panels.  They  did  not  hear  her:  she 
might  have  been  a  thousand  miles  away.  Her  turn  was 
not  yet.  She  had  set  two  males  to  fight  for  her,  and  she 
must  wait  until  it  should  be  decided  to  which  of  the  two 
she  would  henceforth  belong. 

But  soon  the  fight  improved  in  quality ;  the  wildness  had 
begun  to  spend  itself;  they  were  introducing  a  little  more 
method,  and  shaping  for  better  things.  Churchill  still 
slogged  away  rather  wildly,  craving  always  for  the  face, 
neglecting  easy  openings  to  the  body,  in  his  excitement  not 
feeling  any  of  the  blows  that  he  himself  received ;  and  of 
a  sudden  he  was  sent  staggering,  would  have  fallen  but 
for  the  table. 

The  lamp,  too,  was  nearly  knocked  down,  and  Churchill, 
getting  round  the  table,  lifted  it  from  its  perilous  situation 
and  carried  it  to  a  window  ledge.  Vickers  did  not  inter- 
fere with  him,  and  suffered  him  also  to  pull  away  the 
table  unmolested.  He  stood  panting  a  bit,  but  meaning 
much  mischief,  and  perhaps  thinking  that  Churchill  had 
had  almost  enough. 

"Yes,"  he  growled,  "but  you  don't  go — now.  I've  not 
done  with  you." 

"No,  I've  not  done  with  you  either." 

And  they  went  for  each  other  again. 

The  man  was  much  heavier,  as  well  as  two  inches  taller; 


276  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

whenever  he  could  turn  his  weight  and  power  to  account 
at  the  same  time  he  would  be  terribly  dangerous;  but 
Churchill  was  hitting  fast  and  hard,  he  was  younger,  he 
was  certainly  better  on  his  legs.  He  had  begun  to  use  his 
feet  properly ;  every  time  he  landed  on  the  face  now  it  was 
a  stinger.  And  Vickers  was  feeling  the  sting.  His  lower 
lip  was  bleeding  and  bothering  him,  an  eye  blinked  spas- 
modically, and  his  right  ear  had  been  nastily  wiped.  Stung 
again  and  more  acutely,  he  gave  a  roar  of  rage,  rushed  in, 
grappled  Churchill  tightly  and  overbore  him.  Down  they 
both  went,  Churchill  underneath. 

They  were  on  the  floor  for  minutes,  Churchill  under- 
neath all  the  time.  There  was  no  referee,  no  seconds,  no 
audience  of  amateurs,  no  ring  to  be  broken  into  by  indig- 
nant partisans;  the  lamps  burned  clearly  and  steadily;  and 
the  woman  outside  the  door,  more  frightened  by  the  si- 
lence than  by  the  noise,  made  pitiful  cries.  Just  what  one 
might  expect  in  the  circumstances  was  happening.  Vickers 
tried  to  finish  there  and  then;  he  pounded  as  hard  as  he 
could  at  such  close  range,  raised  himself  and  dropped 
again  with  all  his  weight,  wanted  to  smother,  crush,  and 
mangle.  And  Churchill  suffered  the  most  deadly  anxiety 
for  as  long  as  it  lasted,  thinking  coherently  throughout  his 
helpless  struggles,  but  never  losing  courage  even  when 
most  exhausted.  "This  is  my  own  fault,"  he  thought ; 
"but  I'll  lick  him  all  the  same.  .  .  .  Ah,  you'd  like  to 
crack  my  skull,  wouldn't  you?  Only  I  know  how  to  tuck 
in  my  twopenny,  old  boy."  But  he  felt  as  if  his  ribs  were 
broken,  his  neck  dislocated,  and  his  heart  being  beaten  on 
with  a  red-hot  hammer.  Perhaps  because  Vickers  tired, 
perhaps  because  he  thought  the  game  was  all  his  own,  he 
unexpectedly  found  the  position  reversed.  Churchill  was 
on  top  of  him,  was  getting  free,  and  next  moment  a  bent 
arm  blow  on  the  jaw  won  complete  release. 

Churchill  was  on  his  feet  again,  out  of  breath,  waiting. 
Vickers,  up  again,  allowed  no  pauses,  went  for  him  with 
another  rush.  But  he  was  weaker,  much  weaker;  it  was 
fierceness  of  intention  with  very  little  else  behind  it;  and 
Churchill  felt  certain  that  it  would  be  all  right  now.  He 
began  to  spar  for  wind — dodging  away,  slipping  by  and 
crossing  the  room,  tiring  his  man,  leading  him  a  devil's 


THE  MIRROR  AND.  THE  LAMP  277 

dance.  And  almost  subconsciously,  at  any  rate  without 
loss  of  concentrated  attention,  he  continued  to  think.  Old 
days  in  the  gymnasium  at  St.  Martyr's,  the  priceless  wis- 
dom of  Sergeant  Miller,  readings  and  broodings  on  his- 
torical prize-fights — all  available  mental  material  seemed 
to  be  aiding  him,  without  hampering  or  confusing  him.  As 
once  before,  many  years  ago — but  in  play,  not  in  earnest 
that  time — thought  and  action  blended,  'and  the  whole 
force  of  his  mind  entered  into  the  smallest  movements  of 
his  body.  So  that  when  rapidly  and  cautiously  he  steered 
clear  of  a  loose  mat  that  perhaps  might  have  slid  upon  the 
floor,  his  very  feet  seemed  to  applaud  and  approve,  saying 
to  him,  "That's  right.  You  can't  be  too  careful.  Just 
take  your  time.  If  you  don't  slip,  or  otherwise  make  a  fool 
of  yourself,  this  man  is  beat  to  the  world." 

Then,  with  recovered  wind,  he  began  really  hitting  once 
more;  patiently  waiting  his  chance,  and  taking  it  with  all 
his  strength ;  glorying  in  the  shock  of  the  good  blow  as  his 
fist  landed  full  on  the  face  and  the  man  went  down  beneath 
it — went  down  again  and  again.  It  was  becoming  easy 
now.  The  man  got  up  and  came  on,  but  only  for  another 
dose  of  similar  efficacy.  The  man's  face  was  like  a  large 
grotesque  mask  that  he  had  put  on  to  frighten  children  at 
a  tea-party;  the  injured  eye  had  nearly  closed  in  a  per- 
manent wink;  the  red  moustache  protruded  ridiculously 
over  the  cut  and  swollen  lips,  and  these  nasty  side  fangs 
displayed  themselves  in  what  appeared  to  be  an  unchang- 
ing villainous  grin.  And  the  huge  loutish  wearer  of  the 
mask  cut  sorry  capers,  as  if  to  make  the  grown-up  people 
laugh,  pirouetting  absurdly,  stumbling,  sitting  down  hur- 
riedly, getting  up  slowly. 

Churchill  talked  to  him.  "Take  that.  This  is  our 
understanding.  Do  you  understand?  There!  Understand 
that?" 

It  was  easier  and  easier.  No  need  for  hurry  now.  A 
few  more  minutes — why  hurry  them  through?  The  man 
was  bleeding,  snorting,  helpless — groaning  under  his  pun- 
ishment. His  breath  came  with  a  whistling  sigh  each  time 
you  hit  him  on  the  body,  with  a  gasping  sob  when  you  hit 
him  in  the  face.  At  last  he  was  down  and  could  not  get 
up.  After  a  lapse  of  consciousness  he  slowly  and  pain- 


278  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

fully  scrambled  to  his  knees;  then  he  sank  again,  subsided 
on  his  face,  moaning,  and  feebly  guarding  his  head  against 
the  boot  work  that  he  dreaded  might  now  begin. 

Churchill,  satisfied,  stood  looking  down  at  him  with 
exultant  smiling  scorn,  and  did  not  feel  one  touch  of  pity, 
although  absolutely  all  the  hatred  had  gone.  "Long  has  he 
asked  for  it,"  said  that  terrible  voice  of  unflinching  in- 
stinct, "and  now  the  most  captious  critics  would  admit  he 
has  had  it." 

Then  with  a  shrug  and  a  laugh  he  turned  away,  and 
went  to  unbolt  the  door. 

"Lilian,  it's  all  right." 

She  was  half  fainting,  almost  distraught,  and  at  sight  of 
him  she  recoiled  with  such  horror  in  her  eyes  that  one 
might  have  believed  that  the  opened  door  showed  her  a 
destiny  she  had  been  praying  to  avoid,  that  the  wrong  man 
had  won,  that  she  preferred  the  tyrant  to  the  rescuer.  In 
truth  Edward  Churchill  was  not  pretty  to  see.  He,  too, 
was  blood-stained,  battered. 

"Lilian,  take  heart.  What's  the  matter?  Oh,  you 
haven't  got  your  hat.  Get  your  hat,  dear.  We'll  be  off 
now." 

Then  he  went  into  the  kitchen  behind  the  hall,  carrying 
one  of  the  lamps  with  him.  Out  there  he  washed  his  face 
and  hands  in  the  sink,  and  dried  them  on  a  roller  towel. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "perhaps  it  will  be  safer  to  put  out  the 
lamps.  We  can't  be  far  off  daylight." 

Lilian  had  crept  down  the  steps.  She  was  supporting 
herself  against  the  piano,  looking  at  the  prostrate  form, 
with  wild  eyes,  her  teeth  chattering,  her  whole  body 
shaking. 

"Come,"  said  Churchill. 

"Is  he  dying?" 

"Dying?  No;"  and  he  laughed  contemptuously.  "He 
has  had  the  thrashing  he  deserved — that's  all." 

"But  I  can't  leave  him  lying  there  like  that." 

"Rubbish.  He's  as  well  there  as  anywhere  else.  .  .  . 
He  can  find  his  way  upstairs  when  he  pleases.  .  .  .  Why 
haven't  you  fetched  your  hat?  Never  mind." 

Then  he  put  out  the  lamps,  took  her  by  the  hand,  and 
led  her  away. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  279 

The  night  trams  had  ceased  running,  the  morning  trams 
had  not  yet  started;  but  outside  Poplar  railway  station  he 
begged  a  lift  in  a  dock  wagon,  and  so  they  rode  for  a  part 
of  their  journey.  When  they  reached  St.  Bede's  the 
streets  were  grey  and  silver  with  the  light  of  dawn,  and 
they  walked  slowly  side  by,  side,  he  holding  her  hand  as 
in  the  dream.  The  dream  had  come  true.  He  had  got  her 
now,  and  neither  God,  the  world,  nor  the  devil  should  ever 
take  her  away  from  him. 

At  Denmark  House  he  asked  her  if  he  should  rouse  the 
housekeeper,  but  she  said  no. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "This,  of  course,  is  a  shock  to 
you.  But  it  is  perfectly  all  right.  It  saves  endless  bother 
and  delay.  I  am  very  glad  it  has  worked  out  just  as  it 
has.  You  will  be  glad  too.  Now  act  sensibly.  Lie  down 
on  the  bed  and  try  to  sleep  for  a  few  hours."  He  had 
led  her  into  his  bedroom,  and  was  arranging  the  bed  for 
her  with  a  traveling  rug  and  the  counterpane  to  keep  her 
warm.  "I  shall  be  close  by  in  the  other  room — quite  near 
you — guarding  you.  If  you  are  frightened — if  you  want 
anything — call  to  me."  Then  he  took  her  cold  white  face 
between  his  bruised  hands,  and  tenderly,  reverently,  kissed 
her  forehead.  "Good-night,  my  darling.  To-morrow  we 
will  go  away,  To-morrow  our  life  begins." 


XXXVI 

NEXT  morning  he  took  her  a  little  way  westward  to 
shops  where  they  were  able  to  procure  all  the  things  that 
were  necessary,  her  trousseau,  as  he  called  it,  and  a  bride- 
groom's suit  of  blue  serge  for  himself.  She  was  crushed  in 
spirit,  still  horror-stricken  by  the  fight,  but  he  told  her  to 
be  of  good  heart,  that  love  knows  no  law;  and  the  busi- 
ness of  shopping  lightened  her  sense  of  woe. 

"You  like  this,  Lilian?    It's  fun,  isn't  it?" 

"I  like  it,"  she  said,  "because  it  makes  me  feel  that  I  am 
with  you  for  ever." 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said.  "It's  for  ever — so  long  as  we  both 
shall  live." 

Then  in  the  afternoon  they  went  by  train  from  King's 
Cross  to  the  village  he  had  visited  yesterday.  Only  yes- 
terday, yet  it  seemed  years  ago.  He  had  noticed  a  cottage 
with  a  board  inviting  lodgers,  and  he  went  straight  from 
the  station  to  this  cottage.  It  was  all  so  easy.  Rooms  for 
his  wife  and  himself?  Oh,  yes,  why  not?  Twenty  min- 
utes after  their  arrival  they  were  sitting  at  tea  in  the 
parlour,  looking  through  the  open  window,  watching  the 
daughter  of  the  house,  aged  six,  drive  three  rebellious  cows 
into  a  paddock  across  the  white  road,  and  laughing  because 
two  old  ladies — Londoners  obviously — were  terrified  by 
the  cows,  and  ran  for  shelter  to  a  garden  gate.  When 
they  strolled  out  after  tea  they  met  their  luggage  in  a 
farm  cart,  the  little  cow-driving  child  sedately  established 
by  the  farm  labourer's  side.  She  had  been  sent  to  the 
station  to  fetch  the  new  lodgers'  brand  new  cane  boxes. 
She  assisted  her  mother  in  house,  stable,  and  garden. 
Lilian  soon  made  the  child's  acquaintance.  By  supper 
time  they  both  felt  that  the  village  was  their  home. 

Here,  then,  for  a  few  days  they  were  perfectly,  idyllic- 
ally  happy.  The  clean  air  filled  their  lungs,  the  kind  sun 
warmed  their  veins,  the  soft  nights  brought  them  dream- 
less sleep.  All  that  there  is  in  love — the  peace  of  love  that 

280 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  281 

passes  all  understanding — Edward  Churchill  tasted  then. 
They  were  the  days  which  never  return,  the  days  for 
which  so  many  wait  a  lifetime  in  vain. 

Once  they  wandered  into  the  churchyard,  and  he  told 
her  of  the  wedding  party  he  had  seen  there.  Presently 
they  entered  the  church,  and  she  stood  with  him  at  the  chan- 
cel steps  looking  at  the  altar.  Then  she  gave  him  a  little 
ring  that  he  knew  had  been  her  mother's  and  asked  him  to 
put  it  on  her  finger,  where  till  now  she  had  worn  her  wed- 
ding ring. 

"Say  it,"  she  whispered.  "Say  it  here,  before  God,  that 
it  is  for  ever." 

He  said  it,  and,  looking  at  her,  saw  that  her  eyes  were 
full  of  tears. 

"As  long  as  we  both  shall  live.    .    .    .    Say  it." 

And  he  said  this  also. 

She  whispered  more  words  from  the  marriage  service — 
whispered  them  to  herself  rather  than  to  him,  and  then  she 
went  back  to  the  front  pew,  knelt,  and  prayed. 

He  went  out  into  the  churchyard  and  waited  for  her. 
After  a  considerable  time  she  came  out,  her  face  bright, 
with  the  sunlight  on  it,  as  she  threaded  her  way  through 
the  graves  to  the  low  wall  where  he  was  sitting;  and  he 
saw  in  her  eyes  the  same  look  that  had  been  in  the  eyes 
of  the  bride.  She,  too,  believed  that  God  was  in  the  church 
listening  to  all  those  words. 

They  sat  on  the  wall,  and,  while  he  remained  content 
with  the  present  golden  hours,  she  already  spoke  of  the 
future — of  the  time  when  Robert  Vickers  should  have  set 
her  free  and  the  Church  could  bless  their  union. 

"Lilian,  do  such  thoughts  spoil  your  happiness?" 

"Oh,  no,  but  I  shall  be  happier  when  there  is  no  need 
for  the  thoughts.  ...  It  will  save  difficulties.  .  .  .  Suppose 
we  ever  had  a  child." 

"I  hope  we  shall." 

"So  do  I,  when  we  are  really  married.  How  long  will  it 
take — at  the  quickest — for  him  to  divorce  me?" 

"A  long  time.     A  year — I  dare  say." 

"You  had  some  more  letters  this  morning?" 

"Yes,  from  Walsden,  from  Gardiner,  and  the  others — 
they  are  all  writing  to  me."  He  got  up  and  stretched  him- 


282  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

self.  "I  am  to  be  excommunicated,  put  outside  the  pale," 
and  he  laughed  rather  bitterly.  "But  Walsden  will  try  to 
let  me  down  as  lightly  as  he  can." 

"He  did  not  say  what  Robert  is  doing — or  what  he  in- 
tends to  do?" 

"No.  We  shall  hear  soon  enough  from  Mr.  Robert 
Vickers  himself.  He  knows  where  I  am." 

Lilian  looked  frightened. 

"How  can  he  have  found  out?" 

"I  wrote  and  told  him." 

Before  leaving  London  Churchill  had  written  a  second 
letter  to  Walsden,  a  supplement  to  his  disclosure  of  loss 
of  faith.  He  stated  his  conviction  that  in  rescuing  Lilian 
from  the  brute  who  misused  her  he  had  followed  the  only 
course  open  to  him.  He  added  an  expression  of  his  hope 
that  Vickers  would  at  once  institute  proceedings  for  a 
divorce;  he  should  not,  of  course,  offer  any  defence;  he 
was  ready  to  pay  damages  to  his  last  farthing.  Naturally, 
his  paramount  desire  now  was  to  regularise  the  position 
of  Lilian  by  making  her  his  legal  wife. 

Walsden,  replying,  said  very  simply  that  he  would  rather 
have  suffered  the  loss  of  a  leg  or  an  arm  than  that  this 
thing  should  have  happened.  However,  he  could  never 
forget  all  that  Churchill  had  done  for  the  parish;  he  him- 
self felt,  and  he  believed  that  the  authorities  would  feel, 
that  as  far  as  possible  Churchill's  disastrous  escapade 
should  be  passed  over  in  silence.  For  the  good  of  the 
many,  as  well  as  for  the  good  of  the  few,  scandal  should 
be  avoided.  Much  harm,  perhaps  irreparable  harm,  would 
be  wrought  if  the  affair  became  a  public  scandal. 

As  Churchill  foretold,  they  had  not  long  to  wait  before 
hearing  from  Vickers.  He  wrote  asking  Churchill  to  go 
to  see  him  at  noon  on  the  morrow  for  the  purpose  of  talk- 
ing things  over.  He  said  that  he  had  so  far  done  nothing; 
he  would  do  nothing  until  he  had  seen  Churchill. 

"But  you  won't  go?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  must  go.  I'll  telegraph  at  once  to  say  I'll  be 
with  him  at  twelve." 

Lilian  was  afraid — terrified.     She  implored  Edward  to 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  283 

refuse  the  interview.  It  was  not  safe.  He  did  not  know 
the  wickedness  of  the  man. 

"He  doesn't  mean  to  release  me,"  she  sobbed.  "He 
will  try  to  get  me  back.  Don't  go  near  him — never  see  him 
again." 

But  Edward  was  determined  to  keep  the  appointment. 
She  could  not  dissuade  him,  and  after  a  while  she  ceased 
to  try.  She  insisted,  however,  on  going  to  London  with 
him  next  day,  and,  pale  and  trembling,  was  left  to  wait 
for  him  at  King's  Cross  Station. 

"How  long  do  you  think  you  will  be  ?" 

"Three  hours — at  the  outside." 

He  told  her  to  fill  in  the  time  with  a  little  more  shopping, 
and  then  meet  him  in  the  Station  Refreshment  Room. 
"Wait  for  me  there — if  I  am  late.  Get  something  to  eat. 
I'm  sure  to  be  back  by  two  o'clock." 

He  did  not  return.  She  waited  for  him,  but  he  did  not 
come  at  two  o'clock  or  three  o'clock.  The  cruel  hours 
passed,  and  still  he  did  not  come.  Then,  in  an  agony  of 
dread,  but  with  love  conquering  all  fear  for  herself,  she 
set  out  towards  the  east,  towards  her  husband's  house. 

Edward  Churchill,  as  he  approached  the  house,  had 
noticed  some  men  of  the  dock-labourer  class  standing  idly 
in  the  street ;  a  knot  of  them  were  in  the  passage  by  the 
hoarding,  and  one  moved  away  from  Vickers's  front  door 
as  he  drew  near.  It  was  a  little  before  noon.  The  door 
stood  open,  and  Vickers  himself  was  on  the  threshold  of 
the  inner  room. 

"Come  in  here.    You're  up  to  time — so  much  the  better." 

The  blinds  were  drawn,  and  Vickers  seated  himself  at 
the  table  with  his  back  towards  the  windows,  so  that  one 
could  scarcely  see  his  hated  face.  Edward  guessed  that 
the  man  was  trying  to  hide  the  traces  of  the  punishment 
he  had  received,  and  he  attributed  the  change  in  the  man's 
voice — a  grumbling  muffled  tone — to  the  swollen  state  of 
his  injured  lips.  He  had  moved  slowly  and  heavily,  as  if 
still  very  stiff. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "you'll  be  good  enough  to  hear  my 
views,  and  then  you  can  go— the  sooner,  the  better  I  shall 
be  pleased.  First,  about  my  wife " 


284  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMR 

"She's  my  wife  now,  Vickers." 

"Oh,  no,  my  friend — and  what's  more,  she  never  will  be 
your  wife."  In  spite  of  the  semi-darkness  of  the  room,  or 
as  one  grew  more  accustomed  to  it,  one  could  now  see  the 
vindictive  passion  of  the  man's  whole  aspect.  He  spoke 
slowly,  endeavouring  to  give  each  word  its  full  weight,  as 
though  reciting  words  that  he  had  prepared  and  learnt 
beforehand. 

"I  have  not  charged  you  for  assault  in  a  police  court, 
but  you  shall  pay  me  for  all.  I  shan't  go  for  divorce — as 
your  late  parson- friends  advise  me.  She  is  my  wife,  and 
I'll  have  her  back.  Yes,  whether  you  like  it  or  not,  that's 
how  it's  going  to  be.  Tell  her  so  from  me,  and  lay  your 
own  plans  accordingly.  .  .  .  That's  what  I've  had  you 
here  to  tell  you." 

"Vickers,  you'll  change  your  mind." 

"Never." 

"Yes,  you'll  think  things  over,  and  come  to  a  wiser 
frame  of  mind.  If  you  like,  I'll  own  I  have  wronged  you 
to  this  extent,  that " 

"Oh,  how  condescending — how  like  a  parson!  But  I 
thought  you  had  given  up  the  preaching  game." 

"I  say,  I  own  I  have  robbed  you  of  your  wife.  You 
didn't  value  her.  She  didn't  love  you.  You  didn't  care 
for  her.  You  had  forfeited  all  claim  upon  her.  Then 
why  try  to  make  her  suffer?  She,  at  any  rate,  is  not  to 
blame  for " 

"I  have  told  you  what  I  mean  to  do  and  what  I  don't 
mean  to  do.  That's  all.  You  can  go." 

"Very  well,"  said  Churchill.  "But  I  am  sure  you  will 
change  your  mind.  You  are  sore  and  angry  now.  Just 
think  it  out  quietly.  It's  for  your  own  comfort  as  well 
as  ours.  Give  us  freedom  and  take  freedom  yourself. 
You'll  easily  get  another  wife  to  bully  and  knock  about 
again." 

"Have  you  finished?" 

"Yes.  I  have  finished  with  you.  But  remember  my 
advice.  And  remember  this  too.  If  you  dare  to  molest 
her,  if  you  ever  venture  to  interfere  with  her  in  the  very 
slightest  degree,  I'm  ready  and  eager  to  protect  her." 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  285 

He  had  come  close  and  he  stood  looking  down  at  Vick- 
ers,  who  sat  quite  still  looking  up  at  him. 

"All  right,"  said  Vickers.  "I've  listened  to  you  patiently. 
But  when  all's  said  and  done,  I'll  have  her  back.  Yes, 
I'll  have  her  back  in  my  own  way,  at  my  own  time." 

Churchill  went  out  into  the  sunlight  from  the  darkened 
room;  and  Vickers,  following  him  to  the  front  door,  stood 
there,  to  watch  his  visitor  till  he  disappeared  round  the 
corner  of  the  narrow  side  street,  and  then  to  listen.  He 
saw  no  more;  but  in  a  moment  confused  shoutings  told 
him  that  the  trap  he  had  laid  was  working  property. 
Churchill  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  Union  men, 
who  might  be  trusted  to  avenge  the  outraged  honour  of 
their  secretary. 

There  were  eighteen  or  twenty  of  them,  and  they  fell 
upon  the  victim  with  savage  fury,  using  sticks  and  bars, 
fists  and  feet,  all  together,  in  the  best  style ;  giving  him  no 
shadow  of  a  chance ;  almost  killing  him,  when  once  they  got 
him  down,  kicking  him  like  a  football.  It  was  all  over  in 
a  minute.  Then  some  one  took  alarm,  some  one  thought 
he  heard  a  whistle,  a  cry  arose  that  the  police  were  coming; 
and  the  men  ran  this  way,  that  way,  through  the  passages, 
along  the  streets.  One  heard  their  footsteps;  then  the 
whole  place  was  empty  and  silent. 

Robert  Vickers  went  back  into  his  house  and  closed  the 
door  behind  him. 

When  after  a  little  while  two  policemen  came  through 
the  passage  by  the  hoarding,  they  found  Churchill  lying 
on  his  back,  bleeding,  insensible,  battered,  with  outstretched 
arms  like  St.  Stephen  or  another  of  the  martyrs.  He  was 
picked  up,  put  upon  a  wheeled  stretcher,  and  taken  to  the 
small  hospital  at  Poplar — a  bad  case,  three  ribs  and  one 
forearm  broken,  dreadful  head  wounds — a  really  bad  case, 
the  doctors  said.  Horrible  to  see,  even  when  the  doctors 
and  nurses  had  set  him,  trussed  him,  bound  him,  plastered 
him — a  bundle  picked  up  from  the  battle-field,  with  faint 
life  still  showing. 

Lilian  found  him  in  the  evening,  and  was  allowed  to 
remain  at  the  hospital  all  through  the  night. 

Before  reaching  her  husband's  house  she  had  heard  from 


286  THE  MIRROR  AND.  THE  LAMP 

people  in  the  neighbourhood  of  "the  accident/'  and  did  not 
for  a  moment  doubt  who  was  its  victim.  A  tall,  nicely 
dressed  gentleman,  they  said,  had  been  "done  in"  and 
taken  away  on  an  ambulance,  but  no  one  could  say  to  what 
hospital.  "Prob'ly  the  London.  .  .  .  Yes,  you  may  be 
sure,  the  London.  .  .  .  Anyways  try  the  London  fust." 
From  the  London  she  was  sent  to  St.  Catherine's,  and  then 
back  to  Poplar. 


XXXVII 

HE  was  between  life  and  death  for  a  fortnight;  then  it 
was  said  that  he  would  certainly  recover,  and  soon  he  was 
making  good  progress.  But  the  progress  seemed  very 
slew. 

This  time  was  most  dreadful  for  Lilian.  Thrown  on 
her  own  resources  and  almost  penniless,  she  maintained 
herself  and  paid  the  rent  of  a  wretched  room  near  the 
hospital  by  working  as  a  charwoman,  sempstress,  any- 
thing. In  a  moment  she  had  dropped  to  the  level  of  the 
casual  labourer.  At  the  hospital  people  were  kind  to  her, 
but  they  were  unable  to  help  her,  and  it  was  painfully 
obvious  that  they  did  not  approve  of  her.  Outside  in  the 
open  streets  she  went  in  deadly  apprehension.  Her  hus- 
band lay  in  wait  for  her,  stopped  her  and  harangued  her. 
He  came  to  the  hospital  itself  and  gave  the  authorities  his 
version  of  her  history,  posed  as  the  injured  but  magnani- 
mous husband,  willing  still  to  forgive  and  take  her  back  to 
the  desolated  home.  He  had  no  fear  now  of  her  pro- 
tector. 

Gently  but  firmly  the  good  folk  tackled  her.  They  tried 
to  persuade  her  to  return  to  the  man  she  had  wronged. 
Now  was  the  time,  while  her  lover  lay  unconscious ;  or 
now  when  he  had  been  pronounced  as  out  of  immediate 
danger.  They  could  all  detect  the  hand  of  God  visibly 
working.  It  was  a  judgment  on  Edward  Churchill — and 
on  her  too. 

Each  time  that  she  went  to  Edward's  bedside  she  ran 
the  gauntlet  of  such  advice  and  admonition. 

The  hospital  nurses  were  divided  in  opinion  as  to 
whether  she  ought  or  ought  not  to  adopt  the  advice,  and 
they  enjoyed  discussion  of  the  question  either  with  her  or 
merely  among  themselves ;  but  most  of  them  were  agreed 
that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  their  patient  if  she  could 
be  definitely  shaken  off  before  he  got  upon  his  legs  again. 

"I  can't  see  anything  in  her  to  justify  making  such  a 
fuss  about." 

287 


288 

"You  don't  think  her  pretty?  No,  on  the  whole,  I 
don't  think  I  do  either.  She's  what  you'd  call  an  elegant 
woman,  if  she  was  properly  dressed;  but  she's  too  pasty- 
faced  for  my  fancy." 

This  criticism  was  offered  by  a  fine,  bouncing,  full- 
blooded  nurse. 

"But  she's  a  good  plucked  one,"  said  another  nurse.  "Yes, 
I  do  give  her  that  credit.  She  hasn't  played  the  fine  lady. 
Sister  says  she  works  all  day  at  the  boot  place  in  Green 
Street." 

Edward  did  not  know  till  later  of  the  ordeal  through 
which  she  had  passed;  but,  gradually  gaining  strength,  he 
began  to  understand  some  of  her  difficulties  with  regard  to 
money,  and  soon  was  able  to  remove  them.  He  was  the 
proud  possessor  of  an  income  of  two  pounds  a  week,  but 
he  had  by  recent  expenditure  forestalled  this.  His  bank- 
ing account  was  overdrawn.  Nevertheless,  with  Lilian's 
aid,  he  sent  a  letter  to  the  Bank  asking  to  be  allowed  to 
overdraw  a  little  more;  and  the  Bank  said,  Yes,  a  very 
little  more.  He  also  sent  a  letter  to  his  mother,  explaining 
that  he  was  rather  ill,  and  appealing  for  a  loan  of  a  hun- 
dred pounds. 

Mrs.  Churchill  sent  him  fifty  pounds,  with  apologies  for 
only  going  half  way  to  meet  his  wishes,  but  life  at  Brigh- 
ton was  not  cheap,  and  she  had  so  many  unexpected  claims. 
She  herself  was  not  in  very  good  health,  and  she  hoped 
that  her  "ever  dear  Edward"  would  soon  be  better. 

Anyhow  the  money  difficulty  was  at  an  end.  Lilian  need 
work  no  more  at  the  boot  place;  she  could  take  some  of 
her  wardrobe  out  of  pawn,  and  sit  by  his  bedside  as  long 
as  the  nurses  would  allow  her.  And  there  would  be  suffi- 
cient funds  to  take  them  to  the  seaside  for  his  convales- 
cence, before  they  started  life  again  in  earnest. 

When  the  patient  grew  stronger  the  good  folk  tackled 
him  in  his  turn,  and,  as  his  state  improved,  their  pressure 
became  heavier  and  heavier. 

He  must  not  dream  of  living  with  her  again.  If  her 
husband  refused  to  set  her  free,  he  must  renounce  all  com- 
panionship with  her.  If  the  husband  decided  to  divorce 
her,  then  he  must  wait  until  the  decree  was  made  absolute. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  289 

He  could  not  possibly  intend  to  set  up  housekeeping  with 
another  man's  wife. 

"I  consider  her  as  my  wife,"  he  said  feebly.  "She  is  my 
wife." 

"How  can  you  say  that?" 

"I  believe  it.     It  is  common  sense." 

"She  is  not  your  wife  in  the  eyes  of  God." 

"She  is  in  the  eyes  of  all  sensible  people." 

"Will  you  read  a  little  book  I  have  brought  for  you? 
See,  I  am  leaving  it  here  within  reach.  Will  you,  later  on, 
just  stretch  out  your  hand,  open  the  book,  and  read  it 
quietly?" 

"I  can't  promise." 

"Oh,  do  promise.  Promise  me  at  least  to  glance  through 
it.  I  am  sure  it  will  arrest  your  attention." 

"All  right.     I'll  try." 

"Thank  you.  Now  I  must  be  going.  But  I'll  come  back 
again.  Thursday  is  my  regular  day." 

It  was  terrible  to  him  to  be  thus  tackled  by  a  large  strange 
lady — an  opulent  middle-aged  lady,  an  influential  supporter 
and  regular  visitor  of  the  hospital.  He  who  had  taught 
and  then  renounced  teaching  now  lay  at  the  mercy  of  any 
of  the  most  preposterous  of  teachers. 

Walsden  had  hoped  that  scandal  might  be  avoided,  but, 
alas,  the  scandal  was  rampant.  Everybody  here  knew 
everything  about  it.  It  was  a  subject  for  debate  upstairs, 
downstairs,  in  the  wash-house  and  the  yard.  Their  poor 
little  drama  was.  explained  and  published  to  all-comers. 
They  themselves  had  become  public  property;  the  whole 
ward  owned  them;  each  bed  and  each  bed's  visitors  had 
the  right  to  look  at  them,  think  about  them,  talk  about 
them.  They  would  have  been  more  to  themselves  if  they 
had  camped  on  the  platform  of  a  big  London  terminus. 
Very  irksome  to  an  innately,  a  shrinkingly  modest  woman 
and  a  high-spirited  but  woefully  sick  man. 

Yet  everybody  was  kind  to  them,  everybody  meant  to  be 
kind.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Walsden  came  often  to  see  him;  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Verschoyle  came ;  Gardiner  and  Nape  came  alter- 
nately. They  brought  him  sad  smiles,  friendly  pats  on  the 
shoulder,  gentle  squeezes  of  the  hand;  they  brought  him 


290  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

flowers,  and  biscuits  and  fruit  till  the  hospital  forbade  this 
extra  diet;  they  brought  him  news  of  the  old  parish,  illus- 
trated papers,  and  a  miniature  chess  board — above  all  else, 
they  brought  him  counsel,  spoken  and  implied.  They  were 
all  so  kind,  but  they  nearly  killed  him  with  their  kindness. 

Representatives  of  the  police  often  came  to  see  him.  The 
police  had  the  whole  tale  at  their  fingers'  ends,  and  they 
said  they  were  almost  ready  to  pounce  on  the  miscreants 
who  had  attacked  him,  if  only  he  would  assist  them  prop- 
erly. They  and  his  other  friends  were  most  anxious  that 
these  men  should  be  punished. 

But  he  would  not  help  by  supplying  information  which 
might  be  of  use  in  fixing  the  guilt  on  the  right  men.  He 
said,  "No.  It  was  one  man  really.  That  is,  I  gave  one 
man  a  thrashing,  and  he  got  twenty  men  to  thrash  me. 
Well,  we  are  quits  now.  T  ^m  content  to  leave  it  at  that." 

The  police — and  especially  dii  inspector  who  had  known 
and  liked  Churchill  for  three  years — were  distressed  by 
this  attitude  of  mind.  Crime  is  crime,  and  it  is  against  the 
public  interest  that  criminals  should  go  unpunished.  They 
thought  that  Churchill  should  sacrifice  any  fantastic  pri- 
vate inclinations  and  help  them  to  get  ahead  with  their  busi- 
ness. They  promised  to  bring  Vickers  to  book  when  they 
had  polished  off  his  gang  of  bravoes. 

Vickers — as  the  inspector  reported — was  carrying  things 
with  a  high  hand.  He  boldly  asserted  that  he  knew  noth- 
ing whatever  about  the  assault.  Mr.  Churchill  left  his 
house,  and  he  shut  the  door  and  saw  no  more.  He  did  not 
pretend  to  be  sorry — far  from  it;  he  said  he  wished  the 
assailants  had  killed  Mr.  Churchill;  but  it  was  absurd  to 
suggest  that  they  had  been  egged  on  by  him,  or  to  attempt 
to  create  any  link  between  them  and  him.  They  did  not 
belong  to  his  union;  they  were  in  no  way  connected  with 
his  union.  They  were  just  a  lot  of  "rough  customers," 
who  no  doubt  went  for  Churchill  in  order  to  snatch  his 
watch  or  purse,  but  were  startled  before  they  could  take 
the  booty.  "Rubbish,"  said  Vickers  truculently,  in  reply 
to  police  innuendoes. 

But  the  inspector,  for  his  part,  said  he  knew  such  things 
about  the  shady  antecedents  of  Vickers  that  he  could  bring 
the  gentleman  up  with  a  round  turn  at  any  minute. 


THE  MIRROR  AND.  THE  LAMP  291 

"Leave  it  alone,"  Churchill  repeated  wearily. 

However,  the  disappointed  police  inspector  proved  a  use- 
ful friend  eventually.  A  month  and  a  half  had  passed,  it 
was  towards  the  end  of  July,  when  a  sadly  cruel  scene  was 
enacted  in  the  ward. 

One  afternoon  Vickers  came  to  the  hospital  and  de- 
manded an  interview  with  his  wife.  He  would  take  no 
refusal ;  he  knew  that  his  wife  was  in  the  building,  for  he 
had  followed  her  and  seen  her  enter  it;  he  had  come  to 
claim  her  once  for  all  and  to  take  her  away  with  him. 
Perhaps  he  had  been  drinking,  but,  at  any  rate,  he  was 
loud  of  voice  and  resolute  of  air,  somewhat  scaring  the  ma- 
tron, and  only  consenting  to  remain  in  a  waiting-room 
for  five  minutes,  during  which  time  his  wife  must  be  sent 
down  to  him. 

Upstairs  in  the  ward  there  were  several  visitors,  and 
when  Lilian  was  beckoned  away  from  Churchill's  bed  two 
or  three  of  them  took  her  in  hand,  urged  her  to  go  at  once 
to  her  husband  and  listen  patiently  to  his  appeal.  It  was, 
of  course,  her  true  duty  to  depart  with  him,  wherever  he 
might  wish  to  lead  her;  but  it  would  be  downright  wick- 
edness to  decline  to  see  him. 

She,  poor  soul,  worn  out  and  overwrought,  wept,  wrung 
her  hands,  begged  them  to  get  rid  of  Vickers  by  any  means 
and  prevent  Edward  from  knowing  that  he  had  come.  Then 
from  below  came  suddenly  the  sound  of  the  brute's  voice. 
Five  minutes  had  elapsed,  and  he  was  storming  and  blus- 
tering to  a  couple  of  doctors.  And  Lilian,  terrified,  losing 
her  head,  ran  back  to  Edward,  flung  herself  down  at  the 
bedside,  imploring  all  to  protect  her. 

"Don't  take  me  from  him.  For  God's  sake  have  pity  and 
let  me  stay  with  him." 

Edward  Churchill  struggled  up  in  'his  bed,  burst  a 
bandage,  and  the  blood  gushed  forth  from  his  wounds. 

This  episode  was  the  climax  of  the  scandal.  It  caused 
a  stoppage  of  work  in  the  hospital  for  quite  half  an  hour; 
the  staircase  and  the  hall  were  full  of  excited  talk  long 
after  the  doctors  had  persuaded  Mr.  Vickers  to  go.  "Oh, 
he  is  a  beast.  .  .  .  No,  I  don't  blame  her  now.  .  .  . 
Yes,  she's  right  to  stick  to  the  other,  now  she's  got  him." 
The  adverse  nurses  changed  their  opinion  after  a  glimpse 


292  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

of  the  deserted  husband,  and  henceforth  had  more  sym- 
pathetic thoughts  for  Lilian. 

After  this  a  strong,  kind  doctor  interposed  his  authority, 
and  made  the  case  his  own.  He  obliterated  the  good  folk 
altogether,  telling  them  in  effect:  "I  cannot  discuss  moral- 
ity or  conventions.  The  woman  is  necessary  for  the  case. 
I  cannot  answer  for  the  recovery  of  my  patient  if  he  is 
worried  by  the  absence  of  the  woman." 

He  talked,  too,  to  Edward  Churchill,  advising  him  not 
to  be  foolish,  but  to  turn  the  police  on  to  the  husband. 
"They'll  draw  his  teeth  or  muzzle  him  somehow." 

So  the  inspector  was  sent  for,  and  the  three  of  them 
debated  the  matter.  The  inspector  was  delighted.  He 
would  see  the  man,  frighten  him,  and  offer  him  a  bargain. 
He  would  say,  unofficially,  "We  have  a  grand  old  rod  in 
pickle  for  you,  and  we  will  use  it.  We  will  go  for  you  if 
you  give  us  any  more  of  your  nonsense.  But  if  you'll  let 
us  alone,  we'll  let  you  alone.  You  have  your  remedy  in 
the  Divorce  Court,  and  if  you're  sensible  you'll  take  your 
remedy." 

Churchill  did  not  like  it,  but  he  was  too  weak  to  oppose 
it,  and  the  doctor  and  the  inspector  both  said  it  was  abso- 
lutely quite  all  right. 

The  inspector  was  successful.  Vickers  swore  vengeance 
still,  but  he  attempted  no  further  molestation.  Week  after 
week  slipped  by,  and  there  was  something  like  comfort  at 
the  sick  bed.  Lilian  sat  there,  holding  her  loved  one's  hand 
in  hers,  and  often  they  talked  hopefully  of  the  future. 

The  world  was  wide  and  open  before  them.  All  this 
fuss  and  talk  might  be  considered  as  purely  local;  outside 
the  slightly  larger  circle  of  life  touched  by  the  small  circle 
of  St.  Bede's  parish,  nobody  had  heard  of  their  adventures 
or  would  care  twopence  how  the  adventures  ended. 
Edward  Churchill,  an  obscure  priest,  had  been  inhibited, 
unfrocked,  turned  out  of  the  Church,  however  unflatter- 
ingly  the  fact  might  be  described.  But  the  fact  itself  was 
without  importance,  so  completely  devoid  of  general  in- 
terest that  it  would  not  justify  a  small  type  paragraph  in 
an  evening  paper.  Truly,  as  Lilian  said  so  hopefully,  they 
could  make  a  fresh  start  and  drop  all  the  past  behind  them. 

Nevertheless,   probably  because   his   weakness   induced 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  293 

depression  of  spirits,  he  had  bitter  thoughts  sometimes  in 
regard  to  their  present  position  and  the  failure  that  he  had 
made  of  his  life.  His  friends  had  all  wanted  to  let  him 
down  lightly.  This  he  understood,  and  too  plainly  he 
could  put  himself  at  their  point  of  view.  Deprived  of  the 
help  of  palliative  phrases,  he  was  just  a  clergyman  who  had 
disgraced  himself  and  brought  disgrace  on  those  connected 
with  him  by  chucking  everything  and  running  off  with  an- 
other man's  wife.  And  in  consequence  he  had  been  kicked 
out  by  the  ruling  body  of  his  profession.  What's  the  good 
of  talking  about  high  aims  when  a  solicitor  gets  struck  off 
the  rolls,  a  soldier  forfeits  his  commission,  or  a  tavern- 
keeper  has  his  license  taken  away  ?  He  thought  with  great 
bitterness  that  no  one  could  be  expected  ever  properly  to 
comprehend  how  and  why  he  had  reached  this  catastrophe. 
Even  those  who  loved  him  best  must  lose  all  trust  in  him. 
The  harm  of  his  example  would  not  only  render  more 
difficult  the  work  of  Walsden  on  the  religious  side,  it  had 
fatally  shown  to  those  lads  of  the  brigade  and  the  club 
how  a  strong  man  can  give  up  the  struggle  and  abandon 
all  self-control.  Better,  far  better,  that  they  had  never 
seen  his  face. 

At  these  times  he  felt  a  great  remorse.  But  his  love  for 
Lilian,  deeper  and  purer  now  than  it  had  ever  been,  came 
as  a  guiding  and  sustaining  thought.  For  the  rest  of  life, 
here  was  his  task:  to  cherish  Lilian.  Yet  here,  too,  what 
a  hideous  failure!  Instead  of  rescuing  her  and  giving  her 
peace,  he  had  dragged  her  down  into  the  mud  with  him. 
Instead  of  guarding  her,  he  was  a  charge  upon  her — weak, 
crippled,  helpless. 

Indeed  he  was  wretchedly  weak.  When  they  told  him 
that  he  might  get  out  of  bed,  he  could  not  stand  without 
assistance.  They  had  said  he  would  be  able  to  go  away 
before  the  August  Bank  holiday;  but  August  was  nearly 
over,  and  still  he  could  scarcely  walk  the  length  of  the 
ward  without  fainting.  He  hobbled  with  a  stick,  his  arm 
remained  slung  in  its  cradle,  he  was  the  wreck  of  a  man. 
Nevertheless  his  own  particular  nurse  seemed  well  pleased 
with  him.  "See,"  she  said  proudly,  after  he  had  been 
shaved  and  trimmed  by  the  hospital  hair-dresser,  "see  for 
yourself  how  nicely  we  have  patched  you  up.  You  aren't 


294 

a  bit  disfigured,  and  I  think  we  deserve  a  lot  of  credit. 
.  .  .  Now  look  at  yourself  in  the  glass." 

He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  supporting  the  glass  on 
his  knees,  and  studied  the  reflection  of  his  face.  It  seemed 
to  him  to  be  the  face  of  another  man. 

Surely  it  had  undergone  a  startling  change.  Surely  he 
used  not  to  have  this  face.  There  was  a  contemptuous  ex- 
pression about  the  lips,  a  hardness  of  outlook,  almost  a 
dare-devil  air — reminding  him  of  types  among  the  costers, 
the  something  aggressive  or  dangerous  that  tells  one,  "It  is 
all  right  while  things  go  smoothly  with  this  fellow;  but  if 
trouble  comes  he  is  the  sort  to  turn  nasty,  to  go  for  people 
with  his  fists  or  with  worse  weapons  if  available" — an 
untrustworthy  look. 

All  this  was  in  his  imagination  only.  To  those  who  had 
known  him  in  the  past  he  was  just  the  same.  And  people 
who  had  never  seen  him  till  recently  found  no  fault  with 
him.  The  nurses  talked  of  his  smile,  and  would  have 
trusted  him  to  any  extent.  His  own  nurse  described  him 
as  a  beautiful  man.  She  asked  him  for  his  photograph, 
and  was  rather  huffed  when  he  said  he  did  not  possess 
one,  and  could  not  promise  to  be  photographed  at  the  first 
opportunity. 

"I  shall  think  it  very  mean  of  you  if  you  don't.  I  shall 
ask  your — your  friend — Mrs.  Churchill  that  is  to  be — to  get 
you  taken  down  at  Sidmouth." 

His  friend  was  going  to  take  him  to  Devonshire — the 
country  that  she  loved — as  soon  as  she  could  move  him. 
She  made  all  arrangements,  she  did  everything  for  him, 
she  was  his  prop  and  his  guide.  She  came  to  him  this 
evening,  and  he  asked  her  if  she  thought  he  was  different 
from  what  he  used  to  be. 

"No,  of  course  not.  What  makes  you  ask  such  a  ques- 
tion?" 

"I  don't  know,"  and  he  laughed.  "Perhaps  it  is  because 
I  have  been  excommunicated.  It's  absurd,  but  I  feel  like 
the  Jackdaw  of  Rheims." 

She  winced  and  bowed  her  head.  Each  time  that  he 
spoke  flippantly  of  the  Church  he  caused  her  pain.  She 
was  ineradicably  religious  and  her  religion  remained  quite 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  295 

unchanged;  all  the  things  that  he  had  abandoned  were  to 
her  as  sacred  as  ever. 

Once  or  twice,  lying  awake  at  night,  he  tried  to  think  of 
the  Mirror  and  the  Lamp. 

Yes,  they  were  there  still,  very  faint  and  pale,  because 
of  his  weakness,  but  still  unshaken,  undisturbed.  The  lamp 
is  one's  innermost  self,  and  the  mirror  is  one's  mind.  The 
lamp  is  not  the  soul,  although  you  may  call  it  that  if  you 
please.  There  is  no  immortal  individual  soul ;  but  there  is 
something  implanted,  imperishable,  in  one's  self  of  selfs, 
and  it  has  power  to  light  the  mirror  and  show  one  what 
is  fair  or  foul. 

The  Mirror  and  the  Lamp ;  in  the  wreck  of  all  else  they 
stood  as  the  one  thing  firm,  indestructible — at  once  symbol 
and  reality. 


THEY  left  London  on  a  glorious  September  day.  It  was 
so  hot  in  the  crowded  third-class  carriage  of  the  Exeter 
train  that  Edward  Churchill  nearly  fainted;  and  a  clergy- 
man, who  had  been  diligently  reading  a  sixpenny  novel  and 
chuckling  at  all  the  funny  passages,  saw  his  distress  and 
made  him  change  seats. 

"Yes,  I  insist.  Take  my  place.  You'll  be  more  comfort- 
able in  the  corner.  .  .  .  Your  husband  will  get  some  air 
here." 

And  unobtrusively  the  clergyman  played  the  part  of  the 
good  Samaritan,  opening  an  old  leather  bag  and  fishing  out 
a  flask  of  brandy. 

"Just  take  a  nip  of  this.    .    .    .    There." 

Then  he  resumed  his  novel,  glancing  at  Edward  from 
time  to  time  to  see  if  he  was  all  right,  showing  a  kindly 
solicitude.  He  talked  to  both  of  them  at  intervals,  in  a 
friendly,  pleasant  way,  asking  questions,  but  without  any 
impertinent  curiosity,  and  always  breaking  off  the  conver- 
sation suddenly  and  burying  himself  in  the  novel. 

"Forgive  me — I  shall  fatigue  you  with  my  chatter." 

Before  the  journey  was  over  he  had  asked  if  he  might 
come  to  see  them  at  Sidmouth.  He  said  that  he  lived  at  a 
place  not  very  far  away.  "I'll  give  you  my  address.  My 
name  is  Gates — Allan  Gates.  I  haven't  a  visiting  card,  but 
I'll  write  it  down;"  and  he  scribbled  his  address  on  one 
of  the  advertisement  pages  at  the  back  of  the  novel,  and 
was  about  to  tear  out  the  page.  But  then  he  checked  his 
hand  and  offered  the  whole  book  to  Edward. 

"I  want  you  to  read  this.  It  will  amuse  you.  It  is 
exceedingly  clever." 

Edward  said  he  could  not  think  of  thus  robbing  Mr. 
Gates  of  the  amusement  that  he  had  provided  for  himself. 

"No,  I  beg  of  you.  I  insist.  I  am  near  the  end — well, 
sufficiently  near  to  guess  how  it  all  works  out;"  and  he 
gently  laid  the  book  on  Lilian's  lap.  "Don't  let  your  hus- 

296 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  297 

band  be  obstinate.     You  may  like  to  read  it  aloud  to  him 

of  an  evening." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Churchill,  "you  are  very  kind." 
And  indeed  he  thought  that  an  unusually  kind  action  had 

been  performed.    It  was,  as  he  felt  quite  sure,  a  dreadfully 

bad  novel,  but  Mr.  Gates  believed  it  to  be  one  of  the  best 

novels  ever  written. 

They  were  fortunate  in  having  secured  cheap  and  com- 
fortable rooms  near  the  sea-front,  and  Lilian's  belief  in 
the  healing  property  of  her  native  air  was  justified  by  the 
rapid  progress  made  by  the  invalid.  Soon  now  he  would 
be  quite  well.  He  could  already  dispense  with  the  arm 
sling,  he  walked  farther  and  farther  every  day;  but  his  joy 
was  to  lounge  about  the  beach,  to  loll  upon  soft  banks  of 
sand  and  watch  the  sea-gulls  swim  above  the  lazily  break- 
ing waves,  observe  the  sunlight  on  their  wings,  and  think 
and  dream.  His  eyes  brightened  always  at  sight  of  his 
dear  companion  as  she  came  towards  him  among  the  boats 
and  nets,  with  her  scarf  blowing  loose — looking  such  a 
graceful  slender  girl,  carrying  herself  so  easily  and  freely. 
She  had  more  colour  in  her  cheeks  now;  she  seemed  quite 
happy. 

Allan  Gates  had  come  to  see  them  two  or  three  times, 
and  they  both  liked  him.  He  was  so  cheerful  and  friendly. 
He  asked  Edward  what  he  proposed  to  do  with  himself 
when  his  cure  was  complete. 

"Well,  I  must  look  out  for  work." 

"I  wonder  what  sort  of  work." 

"I  scarcely  know  myself.  Anything  to  turn  an  honest 
penny." 

They  were  drawing  slowly  but  steadily  towards  the  end 
of  their  fifty  pounds;  the  blue  serge  suit  began  to  look 
shabby;  life  must  soon  be  attacked  again.  When  they 
talked  of  their  future  plans  they  foresaw  some  worry  and 
annoyance. 

In  this  connection  Lilian  had  tentatively  suggested  that 
he  should  change  his  name ;  but  he  at  once  refused  to  adopt 
such  a  suggestion.  It  was  not  to  be  thought  of  for  a 
moment. 

"What — take  an  alias,  as  though  we  were  criminals?    It 


298  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

would  be  to  admit  that  we  had  done  wrong.  And  we  have 
done  no  wrong." 

"No,"  she  said  sadly ;  "but  we  can't  hope  that  the  world 
will  ever  take  that  view." 

And  she  pleaded  that  their  new  start  sho'uld  be  truly  a 
fair  start,  with  no  handicap  of  preconceived  prejudice  to 
contend  against,  no  weight  of  suspicion  for  her  to  carry. 
"If  people  find  out,  well,  we  can't  help  it;  but  don't  tell 
them  before  hand.  It's  not  fair  to  me.  I  can't  face  other 
women  if  they  know." 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "If  you  wish  it — but  it  will  be 
difficult." 

He  did  not  like  the  idea  of  deception;  but  truly  when 
he  pondered  it  there  seemed  to  be  no  alternative.  He  could 
not  go  about  the  world  announcing  that  they  were  not  a 
legally  married  couple.  He  must  speak  of  her  as  his  wife, 
because  he  considered  her  his  wife.  People  could  be  left 
to  find  out  the  truth  for  themselves.  But  he  would  utter 
no  lies. 

She  made  him  promise  also  that  he  would  not  inform 
people  that  he  had  been  inhibited.  No  one  need  know  that 
he  had  been  in  the  Church  and  had  left  it. 

"But  Lilian — for  instance — Allan  Gates!  Am  I  to  say 
nothing  to  him?" 

"No,  why  should  you  ?" 

"I — I  feel  a  great  attraction  to  him.  Without  explicit 
words,  he  is  offering  us  his  friendship.  I  think  he  is  a 
friend  that  I  should  value." 

"If  he  became  a  friend — if  you  were  forced  to  tell  him 
anything  say  that  it  is  our  secret.  He  would  respect  the 
secret." 

"Yes,  but  about  religion.    I  couldn't  pretend  with  him." 

"There  will  be  no  need.  He  hasn't  talked  about  religion, 
has  he?" 

"No,  not  yet." 

Allan  Gates  was  in  charge  of  a  church  at  Lipsford  Val- 
ley, a  village  over  the  hills  ten  miles  away,  where  the  cloth 
mills,  cottages,  the  church,  and  everything  else  belonged 
to  a  most  respectable  family  of  the  name  of  Burnage.  He 
had  a  charming  parsonage  with  a  nice  garden,  "And  I  love 
it,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  hands  together.  "I  am  too  fond  of 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  299 

it — much  fonder  than  I  ought  to  be."  He  told  them  all 
about  himself.  He  was  a  bachelor,  alone  in  the  world. 
For  a  long  time  he  had  been  curate  at  a  big  northern  town, 
and  he  might  have  obtained  preferment,  but  he  possessed 
no  ambition.  "Lips ford  is  just  a  backwater.  Life  leads 
nowhere  there.  Perhaps  I  am  wrong  to  be  so  contented." 

He  used  to  come  to  Sidmouth  sometimes  by  train,  and 
then  he  wore  the  orthodox  black;  and  sometimes  on  his 
bicycle,  in  which  case  he  wore  grey  flannels  and  a  straw 
hat:  but  whether  dressed  as  a  priest  or  a  tourist,  he  was 
looked  out  for  by  Churchill  and  welcomed  with  pleasure. 
He  came  often. 

He  was  about  forty  years  of  age,  a  fairly  tall  man,  strong 
and  wiry;  with  a  healthy  olive  complexion,  hard  features, 
and  a  lowish  forehead  which  seemed  high  because  of  his 
baldness.  He  had  a  short  stubby  beard  that  had  been  black 
and  was  now  turning  grey ;  his  eyebrows  were  thick  and 
bushy,  almost  meeting  over  brownish  eyes — not  opaquely 
brown  eyes,  but  of  a  speckled  colour,  with  plenty  of  light 
in  them.  His  voice  was  hearty,  full  of  tone,  most  pleasant 
to  the  ear. 

To  Churchill,  looking  deeper  than  the  surface  aspect,  he 
seemed  to  be  the  typical  perfect  Christian;  tolerant,  brave 
and  cheerful;  simple  and  happy  of  mind;  sorry  for  and 
anxious  to  alleviate  the  suffering  in  the  world,  but  quite 
sure  of  the  good  things  waiting  for  everybody  in  heaven. 

He  invited  Lilian  and  Edward  to  visit  him  at  Lips  ford 
Valley,  and  after  considerable  persuasion  they  agreed  to 
go.  They  both  enjoyed  their  outing.  Lilian,  especially,  fell 
in  love  with  the  place,  saying  it  was  so  restful,  so  little 
spoilt  by  modern  innovation,  so  truly  Devonian. 

The  manufacturing  settlement  lay  along  the  edge  of  a 
stream  about  a  mile  further  down  the  valley  than  the 
ancient  village,  which  they  had  passed  coming  from  the 
station,  and,  in  spite  of  its  purely  utilitarian  character,  it 
did  not  mar  the  natural  beauty  of  the  landscape.  Even  the 
cloth  mills  themselves,  built  of  fair  stone,  and  of  no  great 
height,  were  not  unsightly;  around  them  clustered  many 
buildings  of  irregular  shape,  while  here  and  there  a  farm- 
house had  been  converted  to  industrial  purposes,  and  its 
gables  and  ridged  barns  rose  above  the  lower  roofs  that 


300  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

closed  it  in.  Some  of  the  work-people's  cottages  were 
ranged  in  cliff  terraces  on  the  abrupt  hillside  and  had  a 
most  picturesque  effect.  The  dwellings  of  overseers, 
managers,  and  so  forth,  the  superiors  of  the  small  com- 
munity, stood  on  the  roadside  beyond  Allan  Gates's  church 
and  parsonage,  a  tributary  of  the  stream  running  in  front 
of  them,  with  little  stone  bridges  at  the  garden  gates. 
Across  the  main  stream  and  a  flat  space  of  rich  meadows, 
the  ground  on  the  other  side  of  the  valley  sloped  gently  up- 
ward, and  here  was  the  principal  seat  of  the  Burnage  fam- 
ily, a  white  Georgian  house  with  a  portico,  and  the  woods 
and  hills  behind  it  to  keep  it  snug  and  warm.  It  looked  at 
once  grand  and  peaceful  in  the  mellow  sunlight.  Autumn 
had  not  yet  touched  the  foliage  of  the  beech  woods ;  cotton 
gardens  were  full  of  flowers ;  the  fruit  still  hung  on  orchard 
trees;  the  smoke  from  peat  fires  seemed  to  mingle  in  the 
soft  air  with  the  perfume  of  newly-turned  earth  and  the 
sound  of  bells  calling  the  work-people  to  their  easy  labour. 

Lilian,  looking  backward  from  the  porch  of  the  par- 
sonage, sighed.  It  was  all  so  pretty,  so  very  different  from 
Poplar  and  Barking. 

After  luncheon  their  host  showed  them  with  innocent 
pride  the  amenities  and  conveniences  of  his  house — the 
"book-room,"  which  one  had  to  search  carefully  before  one 
could  discover  any  books,  the  tiny  kitchen,  the  pantry,  the 
cupboards  where  he  kept  gardening  implements,  fishing- 
rods,  and  his  big  pair  of  foul-weather  boots. 

"Yes,  very  convenient,  isn't  it?"  And  he  repeated  some- 
thing that  he  had  said  before.  "My  conscience  often 
pricks  me.  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  be  so  contented." 

"Anybody  would  be  contented  here,"  said  Lilian. 

Time  did  not  permit  of  their  making  further  explora- 
tions, but  on  their  way  back  to  the  railway  station  they  had 
the  privilege  of  seeing  old  Mrs.  Burnage  drive  past  in  her 
fine  carriage,  and  they  met  another  of  the  family,  Mr. 
Gordon  Burnage,  on  foot.  Gates  introduced  them  to  him, 
and  they  stood  talking  for  two  or  three  minutes. 

He  told  Edward  that  his  great-great-grandfather  used 
to  take  the  cloth  in  bales  on  pack  animals  to  the  market  at 
Exeter,  and  the  track  over  the  hills  was  called  "Pack  walk" 
to  this  day.  He  was  obviously  gratified  when  Lilian,  shyly 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  301 

making  conversation,  said  that  Devonshire  had  always  been 
her  favourite  county. 

One  afternoon,  soon  after  this  visit,  as  Churchill  and 
Gates  sat  on  the  Sidmouth  beach  together,  Gates  gave  a  full 
and  minute  account  of  all  that  had  not  been  inspected  or  de- 
scribed at  Lipsford  Valley.  Churchill  loved  to  hear  him 
talk.  Although  neither  clever  nor  intellectual,  he  never 
bored  one.  Interested  himself  in  all  he  spoke  of,  he  made 
it  interesting  to  others.  So  Churchill  listened  attentively 
to  long  character  sketches  of  old  Mrs.  Burnage,  the  grand 
chieftain  of  the  clan;  of  Miss  Adela,  her  great-niece;  as 
well  as  of  Mr.  Gordon  Burnage  and  Mr.  Edrick  Burnage, 
who  were  managing  directors  of  the  three  cloth  mills.  As 
Mr.  Gordon  had  said,  the  whole  place  had  belonged  to  the 
family  for  generations.  In  a  sense  it  was  a  unique  indus- 
trial community.  All  the  work-people  were  very  well 
cared  for.  They  had  the  use  of  baths,  libraries,  recreation 
rooms;  there  was  an  excellent  institute;  there  was  even  a 
scheme  of  secondary  education  with  courses  of  lectures, 
and  so  on — all  run  by  the  family.  "They  do  everything," 
said  Gates.  "Mr.  Edrick  always  speaks  of  us  as  a  re- 
public, but,  between  you  and  me,  we  are  really  an  absolute 
monarchy.  But  it  is  a  beneficent  rule.  There  is  nothing 
to  rub  one  the  wrong  way — no  tyranny  of  any  sort." 

Edward  sat  with  his  back  against  the  stern  of  a  boat, 
his  hands  clasped  behind  his  neck,  watching  the  animated 
face  of  the  speaker,  listening  to  the  kind  friendly  voice,  en- 
joying every  trivial  detail  of  the  discourse,  but  not  in  the 
least  guessing  its  drift. 

"Our  Institute  has  not  been  too  successful  of  late.  We 
had  a  person  who  looked  after  it — very  badly.  Now  I  am 
glad  to  say  he  has  gone.  We  want  an  altogether  superior 
class  of  man  who  could  attend  to  the  library  also,  arrange 
things  instead  of  waiting  to  be  told  what  to  do.  What  we 
want — if  we  could  only  get  them — is  a  really  well-educated 
couple — the  wife  to  supervise  various  small  matters  and 
perhaps  do  something  in  the  music  line.  Our  music  has 
been  a  weak  point,"  and  he  paused,  smiled,  and  scratched 
his  beard. 

"We  are  asking  for  a  lot,  aren't  we?  Mr.  Gordon  Bur- 
nage offers  as  rumuneration  only  thirty  shillings  a  week — 


302  THE  MIRROR  AND:  THE  LAMP 

for  the  two— the  man  and  his  wife.  It  is  very  little.  But 
there  is  the  cottage — quite  a  nice  cottage,  with  fuel  and 
light — a  furnished  cottage.  Living,  too,  is  cheap.  How 
does  it  sound?"  and  he  beamed  at  Edward.  "For  a  man  of 
your  gifts  and  power,  it  is  ridiculous ;  but  still,  if  you  are 
at  a  loose  end,  will  you  come  and  give  us  a  trial  ?" 

"Gates,  you — you  quite  overwhelm  me.  But  I  fear  it  is 
impossible." 

"Why  ?  You  can't  guess  how  I  want  you  to  come.  Self- 
ishly— because  it  will  mean  so  much  to  me.  Mr.  Gordon 
Burnage  instructs  me  to  make  you  the  offer  definitely — to 
come  and  see  how  you  get  on;"  and  Allan  Gates  pleaded 
strenuously  in  favour  of  the  peaceful,  happy  life  of  his 
backwater.  "It  will  suit  you — for  a  time,  at  any  rate,  till 
you  find  something  better.  Your  wife  liked  the  look  of  it. 
I'm  sure  your  wife  would  like  to  come." 

"Yes,"  said  Churchill,  "Lilian  would  like  it.  I,  too.  But 
I  don't  know  if  I  have  the  right  to  accept.  There  are  things 
about  me — about  both  of  us — that  you  don't  know."  He 
was  looking  out  across  the  water,  at  the  sails  of  a  distant 
ship  that  glittered  whitely  in  the  haze  where  sky  and  sun 
melted  into  one.  "I  should  warn  you — I  must  tell  you 
that  I  am  not  a  believer."  He  unclasped  his  hands,  shifted 
his  position,  and  played  with  the  sand,  picking  up  as  much 
of  it  as  one  hand  would  hold  and  letting  it  drift  through 
his  fingers.  "I  don't  believe." 

"You  don't  believe?"  said  Allan  Gates,  without  the 
slightest  surprise  in  his  tone,  smiling,  beaming  in  friendli- 
ness. 

"No,  I  used  to.    But  now  I  don't." 

"Well,  what  can  one  say  ?  Don't  let's  talk  about  it,"  and 
Gates  stretched  himself,  as  though  about  to  get  up.  Then 
he  behaved  in  a  manner  that  moved  Churchill  strangely.  "I 
don't  mind,  if  you  don't  mind."  He  had  taken  Churchill's 
hand,  and  he  pressed  it  affectionately.  "Leave  it  all  as  it  is. 
You  once  believed.  You  have  ceased  to  believe.  But  you 
will  believe  again." 

And  Edward  Churchill,  looking  at  him,  saw  his  face  all 
lit  up  with  love,  and  his  eyes  soft  and  glowing;  and  he 
thought,  "This  man  is  my  brother" 
They  both  rose  to  their  feet  and  walked  away  together 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  303 

along  the  water's  edge,  Churchill  feeling  that,  though  quite 
unworthy,  he  had  gained  something  of  great  value.  He 
thought,  "Except  for  Lilian,  who  means  and  is  the  uni- 
verse, this  is  the  grandest  thing  that  has  come  to  me." 

They  walked  for  a  little  way  without  speaking,  and  it 
was  Churchill  who  broke  the  silence  of  happy  thought. 

"You  don't  understand.  I  could  not  teach  the  orthodox 
faith  even  by  implication." 

"That  doesn't  matter,  if  you  don't  want  to  teach  in- 
fidelity." 

"No,  on  my  honour." 

"Then  that's  all  right.  Besides,  you  won't  be  required 
to  teach." 

"But  still  you  don't  understand.  For  certain  reasons, 
because  of  things  that  have  happened,  I  feel  myself  an  out- 
cast. I  am  rejected  now  by  everybody;"  and  he  quoted 
the  Psalm,  "  'I  became  a  reproof  among  all  mine  enemies, 
but  especially  among  my  neighbours;  and  they  of  mine 
acquaintance  were  afraid  of  me.'  " 

"Look!"  said  Allan  Gates,  pointing  to  the  play  of  light 
and  shadow  on  the  water.  "Small  clouds  in  the  sunshine — 
how  quickly  they  pass,  how  soon  all  is  bright  again!  Your 
trouble,  whatever  it  has  been,  will  pass  away." 

"Allan,  why  are  you  so  good  to  me?  Why  should  you 
care  for  me?" 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps  because  I  am  a  very  lonely  man 
— perhaps  just  because  I  took  to  you  at  first  sight.  But  I 
have  never  cared  for  anybody  as  much  as  I  do  for  you." 

"I  am  not  worthy.  I  don't  trust  myself.  I  may  repay 
you  badly." 

"I'll  run  the  risk,"  said  Allan  Gates.  "If  you  don't 
trust  yourself,  /  trust  you." 


XXXIX 

THERE  were  perhaps  twelve  hundred  hands,  men  and 
women,  boys  and  girls,  employed  at  the  mills,  and  truly 
they  had  no  cause  to  complain  of  the  conditions  under 
which  they  worked.  They  were  well  nourished,  well  clad; 
they  received  a  sufficient  wage.  They  dwelt  perhaps  in  the 
midst  of  an  artificial  prosperity;  for  it  seemed  doubtful  if 
the  cloth-making  was  any  longer  an  enterprise  that  could  be 
justified  on  strict  business  principles.  But  the  Burnages, 
having  amassed  fortune  by  making  cloth,  having  made 
cloth  for  so  long  a  period,  went  on  making  it  instinctively, 
or  as  almost  a  pious  family  custom.  Their  mills  and  the 
small  social  domain  gave  occupation  to  their  minds,  filled 
their  lives  with  a  wholesome,  orderly  routine  of  easy  effort 
and  readily  observable  result.  They  had  fought  hard  in 
keeping  out  Board  Schools,  they  needed  no  Government 
aid,  they  liked  to  do  everything  themselves,  and  in  their 
own  way. 

If  anybody  was  not  pleased  with  their  way,  he  had  his 
alternative.  He  need  not  stay  jn  Lipsford  Valley.  Mr. 
Edrick  Burnage  would  quickly  suggest  change  of  scene  to 
young  fellows  who  seemed  disposed  to  cause  trouble  by 
looking  discontented,  by  running  after  the  girls,  or  by  air- 
ing foolish  ideas  at  the  works.  "My  lad,  don't  you  think 
you  are  wasted  here?  A  fine  strong  young  man  like  you 
would  be  useful  in  her  Majesty's  forces;"  and  he  spared 
no  pains  in  putting  him  into  uniform — the  Navy  and  Army 
still  being  considered  as  an  extremely  useful  institution 
for  getting  rid  of  undesirables.  Heaven  knows  they  cost 
enough:  it  was  a  pity  if  one  could  never  find  a  use  for 
them.  He  also  in  the  kindest  manner  eliminated  Non- 
conformists, although  a  great  stickler  for  liberty  of  con- 
science and  by  no  means  a  bigoted  Churchman ;  but  he  used 
to  say,  "We  happen  always  to  have  been  Church  of  Eng- 
land, and  we  are  so  small  a  society  that  we  cannot  be  happy 
unless  of  one  mind."  In  all  this  he  was  actuated  by  hon- 
estly good  motives. 

304 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  305 

The  rule  was  parental,  in  certain  respects  almost  grand- 
motherly. Water-troughs,  drinking-fountains,  the  dock- 
tower,  even  the  benches  on  the  paths  beneath  the  trees,  bore 
tablets  saying  that  they  were  presented  by  James  Hacking 
Burnage,  Esq.,  or  erected  to  the  memory  of  Emily  Kate 
Burnage,  as  the  case  might  be;  and  little  notice  boards 
primly  recommended  passers-by  to  "Do  as  you  would  be 
done  by.  Why  destroy  what  has  been  arranged  for  the 
pleasure  of  others  as  well  as  yourself?"  "Please  close  this 
gate,"  said  one  side  of  a  board.  "Thank  you,"  said  the 
other  side  of  the  board — a  nasty  little  ironical  erg,  this 
"Thank  you,"  if  you  had  left  the  gate  open.  Nothing  was 
too  small  to  receive  attention,  if  a  supervising  eye  could 
suggest  improvements  likely  to  conduce  to  the  common  wel- 
fare. Mr.  Gordon  Burnage,  for  instance,  personally  vis- 
ited dust-bins  and  back  premises,  accompanied  by  a  sort 
of  village  bailiff,  going  his  round  like  a  commanding  officer 
doing  billets. 

He  complimented  Lilian  on  the  state  of  her  dust-bin 
when  he  paid  his  first  visit  to  the  Churchills'  cottage.  "That 
is  right — the  lid  on.  It  is  so  important  to  keep  the  lids 
on.  ...  If  you  only  knew  how  often  I  say  that,  and 
how  little  heed  is  given  to  my  words!" 

He  offered  domestic  hints  about  meat  safes  and  the 
preservation  of  food,  and  praised  the  curtains  that  Lilian 
had  hung  in  the  windows  of  the  living-room.  "May  I  come 
in?  Thank  you.  How  neat  and  nice  everything  is.  And 
your  garden,  too — very  tidy.  It  is  well  to  be  careful  to 
see  that  the  culvert  does  not  get  choked  with  dead  leaves 
or  vegetable  matter,"  and  he  pointed  through  the  window 
to  the  little  bridge  from  the  road.  "Now  have  you  all  that 
you  require  in  the  way  of  furniture?  Don't  scruple  to  ask 
for  anything  you  want.  We  are  always  anxious  to  make 
every  one  comfortable." 

As  newcomers  the  Churchills  were  ceremoniously  bid- 
den one  Sunday  afternoon  to  see  the  glasshouses  and  drink 
tea  at  the  Burnage  mansion,  and  on  their  arrival  they 
were  plunged  immediately  into  a  large  family  gathering. 
The  wives  of  Mr.  Gordon  and  Mr.  Edrick  Burnage  had 
come  from  their  respective  houses;  there  was  Miss  Adela 
Burnage,  a  pretty  girl  of  twenty ;  and  outside  the  windows 


306  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

of  the  drawing-room  one  saw  girls  and  boys  of  various 
ages  playing  on  the  terrace  with  their  governess.  These 
were  the  children  of  a  Burnage  who  had  become  a  bar- 
rister in  London — a  talented  young  man  who  had  turned 
his  back  on  cloth  and  caused  grief  thereby,  but  had  now 
been  forgiven.  A  large,  silent  man  and  two  small,  soberly 
dressed  women  were  probably  not  blood  relations;  they 
had  merely  joined  the  party  for  luncheon,  but  they  pos- 
sessed solid  interest  in  the  works;  they  had  always  be- 
longed to  the  place,  and  might  be  counted  Burnages  by 
adoption.  There  was  also  a  tall  languishing  lady  of  thirty, 
a  Burnage  by  birth,  who,  one  somehow  gathered,  had  been 
unhappy  in  her  marriage  and  had  returned  to  the  family. 
She  had  airs  and  graces  and  intense  glances,  and  was  differ- 
ent from  all  the  others.  People  addressed  her  as  "Daphne" 
or  "Mrs.  William,"  and  when  everybody  was  passing  through 
the  dining-room — an  impressive  chamber  with  fluted  columns 
and  family  portraits — on  their  way  to  the  hothouses, 
Churchill  heard  her  give  a  loud  sigh.  In  the  hall  she  handed 
him  a  purple  velvet  cloak  with  an  ermine  collar,  and  when 
he  had  assisted  her  to  drape  herself  in  the  garment  she 
smiled  and  half  closed  her  large  dark  eyes,  but,  unlike  the 
notice-boards,  did  not  say  "Thank  you." 

Mrs.  Burnage,  senior,  headed  the  procession.  She  was  a 
resolute,  white-haired,  ruddy-cheeked  old  lady,  and  all 
followed  her  as  their  natural  chieftain  and  leader.  On  the 
terrace  she  called  for  her  scissors,  and  immediately  the 
children  flocked  round  her,  asking  if  she  intended  to  cut  a 
nosegay. 

"Yes,  I  will  cut  a  nosegay." 

And  a  chorus  took  up  her  words.  "Aunt  Lucy  is  going  to 
cut  a  nosegay.  .  .  .  Yes,  of  course,  dear,  Auntie  will  cut  a 
nosegay."  It  appeared  to  be  a  sort  of  rite,  this  cutting  of  a 
nosegay,  understood  by  all. 

"Auntie,  may  I  help  you?"  asked  a  little  boy. 

"No,"  said  the  old  lady,  "Mrs.  Churchill  will  help  me ;" 
and  she  kept  Lilian  at  her  side,  as  they  entered  the  range  of 
glasshouses  and  slowly  passed  through  them,  sometimes 
telling  the  visitor  which  flower  to  gather,  sometimes  snipping 
off  the  flowers  herself. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  307 

"There,  my  dear.  That  sprig  of  verbena,  if  you  please. 
Can  you  reach  it  ?  ...  Yes,  that  will  do  nicely." 

In  one  of  the  houses  Churchill  found  himself  again  close  to 
the  tall,  ermine-clad  Daphne,  and  she  startled  him  by  speak- 
ing to  him  while  she  stooped  over  some  pot  plants. 

"I  suppose,  Mr.  Churchill,  this  all  seems  to  you  very  small, 
very  narrow." 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said,  looking  round  vaguely  at  the  long 
shelves,  the  hot-water  piping,  and  the  metal  stanchions. 
"They  seem  to  me  very  fine  houses — room  for  so  much." 

Mrs.  William  raised  her  large  eyes,  and  smiled  at  him 
wearily. 

"I  didn't  mean  this  little  prison  of  glass  and  iron,  but  the 
larger  prison  outside.  I  meant  Lips  ford,  your  present  em- 
ployment, us."  And  she  closed  her  eyes  and  opened  them 
widely.  "I  should  have  thought  you  felt  like  an  eagle  in 
a  cage." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Edward,  very  blankly. 

"I  was  a  bird  once,"  said  Daphne;  "but  they  broke 
my  wings  on  the  wheel  of  life." 

Just  then  Mr.  Edrick  Burnage  came  and  put  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder,  and  Edward  was  pleased  to  have  his  company. 
The  lady  struck  him  as  so  very  strange. 

"Well,  Mrs.  William,"  said  Mr.  Edrick  prosaically,  "were 
you  glad  to  find  that  the  dividend  on  those  Brewery  shares 
was  all  right?" 

At  the  far  end  of  the  houses  the  head  gardener  stood 
waiting  for  his  mistress,  and  he  gave  her  strips  of  bass  to  tie 
up  her  nosegay.  This  she  did  slowly  and  laboriously,  with 
knuckly  old  fingers  that  shook.  Then  she  handed  the  nose- 
gay to  Lilian. 

"Yes,  for  you,  my  dear." 

Lilian  was  surprised,  overcome  by  the  honour  done  her; 
but  everybody  else  had,  of  course,  known  what  was  coming. 
This  appeared  to  be  the  invariable  conclusion  of  the  rite: 
the  nosegay  was  always  for  the  visitor. 

There  was  great  pomp  at  the  tea-making  and  tea-drinking 
— an  immense  silver  kettle  that  only  Mr.  Gordon  could 
manage,  and  servants  very  busy  laying  out  tables  with  food. 
Old  Mrs.  Burnage  sat  in  a  large  chair  at  a  little  distance, 
and  every  one  waited  on  her. 


308  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAME 

"Aunt  Lucy,  will  you  have  a  sandwich  ?" 

"Do  try  this  cake,  Auntie." 

"No,  my  dear,  I  do  not  wish  anything  more."  She  called 
all  young  women  and  children  "my  dear." 

Suddenly  somebody  missed  Daphne,  and  somebody  else 
discovered  that  she  had  retired  to  her  room  with  a  headache. 
A  good  deal  of  commiseration  was  expressed,  rntil  it  was 
observed  that  old  Mrs.  Burnage  was  grumbling  to  herself 
and  drumming  on  the  arm  of  her  chair.  Immediately,  with 
ready  tact,  Mr.  Gordon  changed  the  conversation,  and  one 
understood  instinctively  that -Daphne's  airs  and  graces  and 
headaches  often  got  upon  the  nerves  of  the  sturdy  old  dame. 

They  talked  of  contemporary  art,  literature,  and  politics. 
Speaking  of  the  last  exhibition  at  the  Royal  Academy,  all 
agreed  that  it  had  been  inferior  to  that  of  the  previous  year. 
"But,  Uncle,  didn't  you  admire  Mr.  Leader's  picture?" 
Yes,  Mr.  Leader  was  admirable  as  usual.  So  was  Sir  Frede- 
rick Leighton ;  and  of  course  the  same  encomium  was  due  to 
Sir  John  Millais  and  Mr.  Alma  Tadema.  One  could  rely  on 
the  old  favourites;  it  was  the  younger  school  that  disap- 
pointed. 

Certainly  there  was  sententiousness  in  the  tone  of  their 
talk;  but  they  were  very  courteous,  refusing  the  snare  of 
argument,  saying,  "Forgive  me  if  I  interrupt  you,  Gordon. 
I  point  this  out  in  illustration  of  the  truth  of  your  lemark," 
or  "As  my  brother  has  well  said." 

Speaking  of  a  play,  an  adaptation  from  the  work  of  Mon- 
sieur Alexandre  Dumas  Fils,  they  said  they  thought  nothing 
had  been  gained  by  bringing  such  a  topic  upon  the  stage. 

"No,  I  regard  it  as  a  mistake." 

"Yes,  it  was,  in  my  opinion  also,  a  mistake." 

And  the  large  silent  man  shook  his  head  affirmatively  for 
quite  a  long  while,  seeming  to  say,  more  forcibly  than  if  he 
had  spoken  aloud,  that  it  was  a  thundering  mistake. 

Talking  of  Lord  Salisbury,  Mr.  Balfour,  and  other  lights 
of  the  political  arena,  they  quoted  a  recent  speech  delivered 
at  Birmingham,  and  passed  on  to  the  always  increasing  perils 
of  trade  unionism  and  the  new  wild  notion  of  securing  special 
representations  for  labour. 

"Mr.  Churchill,  I  am  sure  you  agree  with  me,"  said  Mr. 
Edrick,  very  courteously,  and  not  waiting  for  an  answer. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  309 

"Is  not  labour,  like  every  other  interest,  already  represented? 
What  more  can  reasonably  be  demanded?  Such  proposals 
cannot  but  have  an  unsettling  effect." 

"There,"  said  Mr.  Gordon,  "I  concur  heartily.  I  verily 
believe  this  ferment  of  discontent  among  the  industrial 
classes  which  is  being  fostered  by  a  small  minority — happily 
a  very  small  minority — of  our  public  men,  will  eventually 
cause  great  trouble,  if  not  checked  promptly.  It  is  to  my 
mind  the  great  danger  of  the  times." 

But  old  Mrs.  Burnage  was  bristling  and  muttering  in  her 
chair,  apparently  very  angry  at  the  mere  thought  of  any  one 
daring  to  unsettle  her  little  labour  realm  at  Lips  ford,  and 
Mr.  Gordon  was  about  to  change  the  conversation  again 
when  the  large  man  interposed.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
he  had  spoken.  He  had  a  deep  rolling  voice,  and  he  said 
he  thought  the  whole  social  fabric  of  England  was  going 
to  pieces.  One  thing  alone  was  holding  it  together — the 
Queen  upon  her  throne.  When  she  went,  he  would  not  be 
surprised  if  all  fell  "like  a  house  of  cards." 

The  ladies,  including  Miss  Adela,  assented  eagerly. 

"The  dear  Queen !" 

"Ah,  yes,  I  don't  like  to  think  of  what  will  happen  when 
she  is  taken  from  us." 

Old  Mrs.  Burnage  said,  rather  testily,  "Creaking  doors 
hang  long;"  but  whether  she  was  thinking  of  the  Queen, 
the  fabric  of  society,  or  herself,  nobody  clearly  gathered. 

Such  was  the  family — perhaps,  not  very  original  in  their 
views,  but  kindly  and  polite,  thinking  well  of  themselves, 
but  honestly  meaning  well  by  others.  Edward  and  Lilian, 
except  in  the  way  of  business,  saw  little  of  them.  This 
invitation  of  the  early  days  was  not  repeated.  The  visit 
was  like  going  to  Court.  It  showed  that  they  were  accepted. 
The  wives  of  Mr.  Gordon  and  Mr.  Edrick  did  not  ask  them 
to  their  houses,  but  Mrs.  William  called  upon  them  once  or 
twice. 

They  had  come  on  approbation,  but  they  were  now  firmly 
established.  Although  there  had  been  talk  of  producing 
testimonials,  nothing  further  was  said.  Allan  Gates  had 
chosen  them  for  the  appointment,  and  every  one  had  confi- 
dence in  his  judgment. 

Churchill's  work,  always  expanding  under  the  direction  of 


310  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

Gates,  was  entirely  secular;  but  he  did  many  things  that  in 
the  past  had  occupied  his  friend.  Beyond  his  duties  as 
custodian  of  the  library,  he  had  evening  classes  with  three 
or  four  pupils  at  a  time,  and  he  often  lectured  at  the 
Institute  on  historical  and  literary  subjects.  All  that  he  did 
was  well  done,  and  for  the  lectures  especially  he  took  in- 
ordinate pains,  writing  and  re-writing  them,  weighing  every 
sentence.  But  the  work,  no  matter  how  conscientiously  he 
performed  it,  was  child's  play  after  his  experience  at  St. 
Bede's,  and  he  had  leisure  for  reading. 

He  read  at  this  period  with  avid  pleasure,  thinking  deeply 
of  all  he  read,  examining  the  change  in  his  receptive  faculties 
that  had  been  caused  by  his  altered  mental  attitude,  seeking 
even  in  the  most  unlikely  materials  all  that  should  help  to 
consolidate  his  philosophy  of  life  and  confirm  his  idea  of  his 
personal  relation  to  the  universe.  For,  as  he  knew  well, 
when  a  man  frees  himself  from  the  trammels  of  time- 
honoured  error,  he  must  walk  warily  on  the  untrodden  paths 
he  has  opened  out. 

No  questions  had  been  asked  as  to  why  he  never  went  to 
church.  The  rule,  although  grandmotherly,  was  beneficent. 
If  he  had  attended  the  Wesleyan  chapel  up  the  valley,  he 
might  doubtless  have  been  called  to  account  by  Mr.  Edrick 
Burnage;  but,  as  it  was,  nobody  seemed  even  to  remark 
his  absence  from  the  commodious  edifice  that  had  been  built 
and  maintained  by  the  family,  and  the  freedom  of  Sunday 
mornings  was  very  pleasant  to  him.  Lilian,  of  course,  regu- 
larly listened  to  Allan's  weekly  sermon,  and  she  often  re- 
lieved the  organist  at  the  evening  services.  She  said  that 
Allan  preached  with  great  fervour. 

She  was  at  first  perhaps  more  conspicuously  successful 
than  Edward  in  these  new  surroundings.  Her  musical  gifts 
found  high  estimation.  The  young  girls  and  the  older 
women  loved  her,  and,  whether  she  wished  it  or  not,  her 
influence  over  them  became  strong.  They  came  to  her  when 
in  trouble,  to  tell  her  of  quarrels  with  their  young  men  or  of 
pain  caused  by  the  harshly  critical  tongues  of  their  husbands, 
and  they  learned  from  her  many  pretty  little  arts  of  home 
management.  She  had  a  genius  for  home,  and  not  till  now 
had  she  been  permitted  to  give  it  the  least  scope. 

As  time  passed  she  seemed  to  make  their  cottage  prettier 


311 

every  day.  Their  servant-maid  adored  her,  aided  her  with 
a  loyal  delight.  Her  great  treat  was  when  after  long 
economy  they  felt  themselves  justified  in  taking  a  trip  to 
Exeter  for  the  purchase  of  some  modest  decoration — lamp- 
shade, table-cover,  flower-vase.  She  came  back  radiant, 
installed  the  new  object,  linked  her  hands  through  Edward's 
arm,  and  stood  before  it  admiring. 

"See,"  she  used  to  say,  "doesn't  it  make  the  whole  room 
different?" 

Yet  was  she  quite  happy?  Edward  sometimes  asked 
himself  the  question.  It  was  for  her  sake  that  he  had  come 
here.  Nothing  else  really  mattered  to  him.  Her  happiness 
was  all  he  asked  from  fate,  and  he  himself  had  been  given 
so  much  in  the  friendship  of  Allan  Gates. 

This  indeed  was  wonderful  and  precious — the  thing  that 
he  had  never  before  enjoyed.  It  was  comradeship  and 
brotherhood.  Allan  was  what  his  brothers  should  have  been 
to  him.  With  Allan  he  could  feel  always  very  young,  able 
to  snatch  joys  that  usually  belong  only  to  youth;  when  to 
walk  about  with  the  boy  one  loves  is  sufficient  for  enter- 
tainment, and  to  break  from  a  walk  to  a  run,  to  get  hot  from 
efforts  that  have  no  goal,  to  get  cold  by  halts  prolonged 
without  reason,  to  make  meaningless  discoveries  in  a  barn 
or  loft,  are  more  satisfying  than  the  highly  organised  festi- 
vals supplied  by  elders  in  the  company  of  those  one  does 
not  care  for. 

In  so  much  Allan  was  childlike.  Not  only  in  his  unques- 
tioning faith,  but  in  his  tricks  and  mannerisms.  He  was 
clever  with  his  hands,  ingenious  at  devices  of  simple  car- 
pentry; and  at  such  work  he  used  to  whistle  and  sing,  or, 
if  alone,  talk  to  inanimate  objects,  addressing  a  nail  as  "my 
friend."  "There,  my  friend,  one  on  the  head  for  you.  Yes, 
we'll  knock  you  on  the  head,  like  that  .  .  .  and  like  that." 
When  puzzled,  or  for  a  moment  baffled  by  some  small  diffi- 
culty, he  had  a  trick  of  rubbing  his  nose  with  a  forefinger, 
and  puckering  his  brows,  giving  himself  the  rueful  expression 
of  a  child  who  is  in  disgrace  or  affliction.  Then  after  a 
moment  he  would  laugh,  snap  his  fingers,  and  shrug  his 
shoulders,  saying,  "Never  mind.  I'll  get  round  it  before 
bed-time.  Difficulties  are  only  made  to  be  surmounted," 
or  some  other  cheerful  aphorism. 


312  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

He  was  never  so  well  contented  as  when  engaged  on  a 
carpenter's  job  for  Lilian.  At  all  times  he  held  himself  in 
readiness  as  her  handy  man,  and  would  hurry  to  the  cottage 
to  put  up  a  shelf,  hang  a  curtain  rod,  mend  a  chair  back. 
Indeed,  had  she  allowed  him,  he  would  have  cleared  the 
dust-bin,  scoured  the  culvert,  dug  in  the  garden  for  her.  He 
did  not  pay  her  compliments  or  say  she  was  pretty — perhaps 
was  not  even  aware  of  the  fact ;  but  he  wrapped  her  round 
with  admiration  and  regard,  declaring  that  everything  she 
did  was  right,  that  there  had  never  been  any  one  like  her. 

At  all  times,  too,  he  showed  a  great  care  and  delicacy  in 
not  intruding  on  their  love  as  husband  and  wife,  or  in  the 
slightest  degree  challenging  her  right  to  Edward's  society. 
"No,"  he  used  to  say,  "I  cannot  join  you  this  evening. 
I  have  a  task  that  I  must  not  neglect.  .  .  .  No,  thank  you 
very  much,  but  leave  me  out  of  your  plot  to-morrow.  Go 
there  by  yourselves.  Two  are  company — three  are  none." 
Then  you  and  Edward  can  go,"  Lilian  replied;  "and  I'll 
stay  at  Home."  Truly  he  need  not  have  been  so  careful ;  for 
Lilian  also  was  very  fond  of  him,  and  these  three  made  the 
best  company  in  the  world. 

There  was  only  one  thought  that  ever  troubled  Edward 
With  regard  to  this  friendship,  a  cloud  upon  its  splendour, 
and  that  for  him  dimmed  what  otherwise  would  have  been 
perfectly  bright  hours.  He  hated  the  tacit  deception  which 
he  ought  never  to  have  practised  and  which  still  continued. 
But  at  last  this  cloud  passed  and  all  was  clear  between  them. 

One  Saturday  Lilian  told  him  that  she  was  going  to  the 
early  Celebration  next  morning. 

"It  is  a  great  relief  to  me,"  she  said,  "to  be  able  to  go. 
So  long  has  passed  since  I  participated — not  since  you  and 
I  have  been  together.  But,  Edward,  to  enable  me  to  do 
so,  I  had  to  tell  Allan  everything  about  myself." 

"I  am  very  glad,"  and  he  took  her  clasped  hands,  held 
them  to  his  breast,  and  kissed  them.  "What  did  Allan  say  ?" 

"He  said  that  I  might  come.  It  is  good  of  him.  Many 
priests  would  have  refused." 

The  same  evening  Edward  spoke  to  his  friend  of  this. 
They  were  alone  in  Allan's  "book-room,"  going  through 
some  accounts. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAME  313 

"Lilian  has  made  a  confession  to  you,  Allan,  and  she 
says  you  will  receive  her  as  a  communicant" 

"Of  course." 

"Thank  you.  It  is  what  I  would  have  expected,  Allan. 
I  knew  how  broad-minded  you  are.  But  I  am  none  the 
less  grateful." 

Then  in  the  open  talk  for  which  he  had  pined  he  told 
Allan  all  about  the  man  Vickers.  He  had  little  hope  now 
that  Vickers  would  ever  help  them  by  getting  a  divorce. 
Indeed  he  had  been  advised  that  from  the  legal  point  of 
view  Vickers  by  the  lapse  of  time  had  condoned  the 
offence.  He  had  sat  down  on  his  wrongs  too  long.  More- 
over, he  had  notoriously  consoled  himself  in  a  brutal 
profligate  manner;  he  could  not  go  to  the  Court  with  even 
technically  clean  hands. 

"So  there  we  are,"  said  Allan,  rubbing  his  nose. 

"Now  that  you  know  the  worst,  are  you  sorry  that  we 
came  ?" 

"Of  course  not." 

"It  has  weighed  upon  my  mind.  I  ought  to  have  told 
you  at  the  beginning." 

"No,  I  stopped  you.  I  wouldn't  let  you  tell  me." 

"You  didn't  guess  the  truth?" 

"No,"  said  Allan,  and  he  rubbed  his  nose  rather  ruefully. 
"I  did  not  guess  that  part  of  it." 

"If  you  had  known,  would  you  have  acted  differently?" 

"I  scarcely  know  what  to  say.  It  is  all  over  and  done 
with." 

"Do  you  feel  that  you  ought  now  to  tell  the  authorities  ?" 

"No — that's  impossible.  Certainly  not,"  and  Allan  be- 
came quite  cheerful  again,  rubbing  his  hands  together,  and 
smiling  contentedly.  "But,"  he  went  on,  "is  there  any- 
thing else  you  want  to  say  now  we  are  about  it?"  and  he 
looked  at  Edward  almost  archly.  "We  have  opened  the 
cupboard.  If  there's  more  than  one  skeleton,  shall  we  have 
them  out,  and  put  them  back,  and  close  the  cupboard  door  ?" 

Then  Edward  told  him  that  he  was  a  priest  of  the  Church 
of  England  who  had  been  inhibited. 

"Ha,  ha,"  said  Allan,  jumping  up  from  his  chair.  "Look 
here !"  He  seemed  quite  triumphant,  as  he  opened  a  Clergy 


314  THE  MIRROR  AND.  THE  LAMP 

List,  turned  the  pages,  and  pointed  to  the  entry  of  Churchill's 
name.  "Look.  Do  you  see  the  note  of  interrogation?  I 
made  that  pencil  mark — that  large  query — three  days  after 
we  first  met.  There  must  be  several  Edward  Churchills, 
though  only  one  has  been  ordained,  but  I  thought  you  were 
that  man.  Something  you  said  set  me  thinking.  Yes,  I 
guessed  that  all  right — but  I  didn't  guess  the  other  half  of 
the  mystery,"  and  again,  for  a  moment,  he  had  a  rueful  look. 
Then  he  shut  the  book  with  a  decisive  action  and  laughed 
gaily.  "Rather  clever  of  me,  Edward.  A  detective  couldn't 
have  spotted  you  quicker.  But  you  set  me  thinking."  As 
he  said  this  his  eyes  grew  tender.  "I  thought  of  you  a 
great  deal." 

"What  did  you  think?" 

"I  thought  then  exactly  what  I  think  now.  You'll  come 
back  to  us.  Dear  old  fellow,  all  your  doubt  will  pass.  God 
will  bring  you  home  in  His  own  good  time." 

"I  can't  let  you  count  on  that,  Allan." 

Allan  shrugged  his  shoulders  good-humouredly.  He 
counted  on  it  as  surely  as  he  counted  on  to-morrow's 
sunrise.  The  same  power  that  lit  the  wide  world  would  light 
the  small  dark  places  in  his  friend's  heart.  But  why  talk 
about  it  any  more? 

The  cloud  upon  their  friendship  had  gone;  but  there 
followed  now  a  time  in  which  Edward  Churchill  suffered 
greatly  from  a  return  of  the  sensation  of  failure.  In  his 
highest  desire  he  felt  frustrated.  What  was  wrong  with 
Lilian?  What  more  could  he  do  for  her? 

Sometimes  he  thought  of  the  natural  crown  of  a  woman's 
life — motherhood.  She  who  was  so  good  and  sweet,  with  a 
bounty  of  tender  sympathy  that  flowed  out  to  these  work- 
girls,  to  all  children,  should  not  herself  be  childless.  If 
only  they  had  a  child,  she  would  be  happier.  Yef  when  he 
spoke  of  this  hope,  she  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"I  want  no  one  but  you." 

"You  would  have  me  still.  We  should  be  bound  closer 
together." 

"Oh,  no,"  and  she  shivered,  "I  pray  that  may  not  happen. 
A  child  to  which  we  could  not  give  a  name!" 

Then  she  spoke  so  sweetly  of  their  love  that  he  could  have 
wept  in  gratitude  and  sorrow. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  315 

"Lilian,  my  dearest  girl.    My  own  true  girl." 

"I  am  so  poor  a  thing  for  you  to  love,"  she  said.  "So 
dreadfully  beneath  you — and  I  can  never,  never  tell  you 
what  I  feel.  I  can't  wish  that  you  had  never  seen  me. 
Edward,  I  can't,  can't  wish  that ;  but  I  know  it  might  have 
been  better  for  you  in  many  ways.  I  have  dragged  you 
down." 

He  said  she  would  break  his  heart  if  she  ever  said  that 
again.  It  was  he  who  had  brought  her  low. 

"No,  you  have  raised  me  up — almost  to  heaven." 

And  she  told  him  that  she  no  longer  cared  or  worried 
about  what  people  might  think  of  her.  She  cared  for  nothing, 
if  they  two  could  be  together  always. 

"What  can  ever  separate  us?" 

On  winter  evenings  they  used  to  walk  along  the  road  to 
the  old  village,  away  from  the  lighted  windows  and  the  work 
and  the  voices.  The  sunset  glow  faded  from  the  hills,  dusk 
crept  upward,  darkness  filled  the  valley,  and  they  were  quite 
alone.  She  clung  closer  to  his  arm,  and  in  the  darkness  said 
things  she  would  scarcely  have  dared  to  whisper  if  he  could 
see  her  face. 

For  her  those  words,  "As  long  as  we  both  shall  live," 
meant  life  after  death  also.  "Till  death  us  do  part"  carried 
the  logical  addition,  "and  until  we  are  united  again."  The 
stronger  their  love,  the  more  she  craved  for  the  certainty 
that  they  need  face  no  real  separation.  She  tried  to  make 
him  say,  "Yes,  it  is  possible."  She  asked  him  if  he  himself 
could  not  believe  even  so  much  as  that — or  if  not  now, 
might  he  not  one  day  believe  it? 

But  he  said  No.    He  could  not  believe  it. 

His  tone  was  sad  and  reluctant.  He  had  seemed  so  glad 
when  again  she  participated  in  the  blessed  Sacrament.  He 
showed  such  tenderness  for  her  religion.  Except  in  their 
first  days — their  honeymoon — when  he  poured  out  all  his 
thoughts,  he  had  never  scoffed  at  religion.  He  never  spoke 
of  it.  But  when  she  forced  him  to  speak,  it  seemed  to  her 
that  he  became  hard  and  cold  as  a  rock.  He  spoke,  when 
she  compelled  him,  with  terrible  plainness. 

"I  do  not  believe.  If  you  mean  survival  after  death, 
I  do  not  believe  that  is  true.  I  believe  that  death  is  extinc- 
tion of  the  individual — utter  annihilation.  Something  that 


316  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

was  and  is  not.  I  believe  in  the  soul  only  in  the  sense  of  the 
spiritual  forces  that  are  implanted  in  each  one  of  us.  I 
do  not  believe  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul  in  any  other 
sense  than  that  life  similar  to  the  life  in  us  will  be  seen  in 
others.  I  do  not  believe  in  the  soul,  or  indeed  in  life,  as 
something  that  issued  from  a  god  and  to  him  will  return. 
It  is  a  beautiful  idea.  I  wish  it  were  true.  I  do  not  believe 
it  is  true.  I  do  not  believe  in  immortality  at  all,  except  as  a 
metaphor  for  the  chain  of  life  that  passes  from  parent  to 
child,  on  and  on,  and  always  upwards  in  its  curve,  seeming  a 
chain,  but  in  truth  with  each  link  severed  by  the  great  shears 
of  death.  That  is  what  I  believe." 

His  voice,  so  level  and  so  calm,  sounding  in  the  darkness, 
filled  her  with  awe.  The  words  were  terrible.  They  crushed 
her  spirit,  struck  heavy  and  cold  upon  her  heart.  She  walked 
by  his  side  with  bowed  head. 

And  he,  pressing  the  hand  upon  his  arm,  went  on  as  though 
to  justify  what  he  had  said.  He  explained  that  it  was  a 
matter  of  conscience  with  him  to  say  what  he  believed  to 
be  true.  He  could  be  silent;  but  if  he  spoke  at  all  of  his 
private  convictions,  he  must  testify  to  the  truth.  The  truth 
is  sacred — that  is,  what  a  man  honestly  believes  the  truth 
must  be  sacred  to  him,  the  man.  It  is  of  no  value  to  any  one 
else,  of  course.  But  it  is  all  important  to  him,  and  he  cannot 
palter  with  his  deep-rooted  conviction.  Self-respect,  self- 
reliance,  all  fails  if  you  refuse  to  maintain  the  right  to  your 
own  reasoned  thoughts. 

And  she  was  thinking,  "It  is  my  fault.  It  is  I  who  am  to 
blame.  But  for  me,  he  would  have  remained  true  to  the 
Church;  he  would  have  continued  his  noble  work,  beloved 
and  honoured  by  all.  I  have  ruined  his  life.  I  am  the  first 
cause  of  his  atheism." 

These  thoughts  for  a  time  made  her  more  and  more 
unhappy. 

It  was  Allan  Gates  who  brought  her  comfort.  He  saw 
her  trouble,  understood  it,  drove  it  away  almost  forever  with 
his  cheerful,  unshaking  confidence.  "Never  worry  about 
him,"  he  told  her.  "Just  give  him  time.  He  is  passing 
through  a  phase;  but  he  will  come  back  to  us.  Trust  me 
for  that.  I  know  I  am  right." 

Allan  spoke  of  her  to  Edward,  startling  him  with  a  strange 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  317 

echo  of  something  that  happened  a  long  time  ago,  when  two 
men — not  friends,  as  he  and  Allan,  but  enemies  by  instinct 
— sat  alone  in  a  room  not  unlike  this  room,  and  one  said  to 
the  other:  "Can't  you  be  kinder  to  your  wife?"  It  was 
Lilian  then  as  now. 

"Dear  old  boy,"  said  Allan,  "forgive  me  if  I  have 
wounded  you.  Shut  me  up  like  a  box  if  I  have  said  too 
much.  I  only  meant  that  unconsciously  you  have  forgotten 
how  your  lightest  words  may  cause  immense  consequences 
— with  her.  If  you  even  touch  her  faith,  if  you  break  what 
she  most  leans  on,  if  you  don't  allow  her  to  think  her  own 
thoughts " 

But  this  was  too  much.  Edward,  greatly  agitated,  pro- 
tested that  it  was  all  the  other  way  round.  He  had  never 
tried  to  rob  her  of  her  faith.  It  was  she  who  would  not 
leave  him  his  thoughts. 

"But  need  you  tell  her  your  thoughts?"  asked  Allan 
deprecatingly. 

"No,  not  unless  she  makes  me.  Then  I  cannot  deny 
them."  And  he  went  over  the  ground  again.  Self-respect, 
the  barest  dignity  of  manhood,  prevented  one  from  abro- 
gating the  privilege  to  think  for  oneself.  He  reminded 
Allan  of  how  religionists  refused  to  sign  confessions  of  faith 
alien  to  their  own. 

"Allan,  they  refused  their  lives  on  such  terms.  And 
they  were  right.  They  called  it  refusing  to  deny  God; 
but  it  was  really  refusing  to  deny  themselves.  That  was 
the  logical  basis  of  their  refusal.  .  .  .  Take  my  life, 
take  everything  from  me ;  but  don't  take  the  reasoned  dig- 
nity that  lifts  me  above  the  brutes — don't  trample  out  the 
right  to  think  for  myself." 

Allan  smiled.  "In  conversation,"  he  said  cheerily,  "as 
in  everything  else,  you  are  my  intellectual  superior." 

"Rubbish,"  said  Edward,  and  the  excitement  under 
which  he  had  spoken  instantly  subsided. 

"Yes,  you  carry  too  many  guns  for  me." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.    Fire  back." 

"Well,  I  think  you  just  put  everything  upside  down." 

"How?" 

"You  speak  of  martyrs  who  sacrificed  self,  and  you 
draw  the  lesson  that  it  is  right  to  exalt  self." 


318 

"No — far  from  it — I  don't  say  exalt  self,  but  give  self 
its  just  due.  Allan,  we  all  are  governed  by  self — we  must 
be — it  is  in  the  nature  of  things." 

"Yet  you  have  never  acted  on  such  a  theory.  Your 
work,  nearly  all  your  life,  has  proved  you  to  be  something 
of  an  altruist." 

"Any  altruism  I  have  practised  has  been  in  a  selfish 
search  for  happiness — merely  to  appease  self.  Where 
altruism  fails  is  where  the  logical  reason  for  it  is  forgot- 
ten." 

"Have  it  your  own  way,"  said  Allan  with  the  utmost 
good-humour.  "But,  dear  old  boy,  do  remember  to  play 
light  in  your  wonderful  logic  when  dealing  with  those  who 
are  not  so  strong  as  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Edward,  "I'll  play  light.  I'll  remember. 
Thank  you,  Allan — for  thinking  of  Lilian.  Henceforth  I'll 
manage  to  evade  discussion.  Skilfully  or  clumsily,  as  best 
I  can,  I'll  build  a  wall  and  hide  myself  behind  it.  ... 
Yet  if  she,  or  any  one  else,  breaks  down  my  wall,  they 
must  see  me  as  I  am." 

He  was  firm  in  the  importance  of  his  point — the  right  to 
one's  own  thought,  because,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  it  had  its 
place  in  the  new  code  of  ethics  that  was  to  be  his  standard. 
His  code  was  now  formed. 

He  thought:  "Of  course  every  intelligent  person  must 
be  something  of  an  altruist;  for  how  else  can  he  hope  for 
mental  peace?  But  the  altruism  must  be  rational — the 
golden  rule  with  strict  limitations.  Give  to  others,  give 
freely,  largely,  more  than  you  can  spare ;  make  sacrifices  of 
much  that  you  desire;  but  do  not  run  the  risk  of  obliterat- 
ing yourself  altogether.  Self  has  rights,  and  in  certain 
cases  must  fight  for  them.  It  is  weak  and  disloyal  to  one- 
self, the  race,  and  the  established  scheme  of  natural  prog- 
ress, not  to  study  self,  when  one  is  quite  sure  that  is  only 
asking  one's  due.  The  strongest  man  has  only  one  life, 
and  his  work  to  do  in  it.  Such  a  man,  believing  that  he 
has  a  task  to  accomplish,  must  not  allow  himself  to  be 
turned  from  it. 

"And  I,"  he  thought  humbly,  "am  the  weakest  of  men, 
with  no  task,  and  no  direction;  but  still  I  must  abide  by 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  319 

the  law,  fighting  for  myself,  refusing  to  obliterate  myself, 
guarding  myself  and  those  I  love  from  unceasing  care,  be- 
cause I  am  myself,  and  beyond  myself  there  is  nothing  that 
I  can  truly  know." 

This  was  to  be  the  code.  His  philosophy  of  life  had  car- 
ried him  no  further.  As  it  chanced,  his  code  was  soon  and 
for  a  long  time  to  be  put  to  the  test. 


XL 

SOMETHING  utterly  unexpected  had  happened.  It  was 
too  fantastically  absurd,  but  Robert  Vickers  had  written 
asking  them  for  aid. 

Walsden  sent  on  the  letter.  The  outer  envelope  was 
addressed  to  Edward  Churchill,  Esquire,  and  inside  this 
there  was  an  envelope  inscribed,  "For  Lilian."  Edward 
handed  it  to  her  across  the  breakfast  table,  and  at  sight  of 
the  handwriting  she  trembled.  She  read  the  letter  slowly, 
and  gave  it  back  .to  Edward  without  a  word. 

Vickers  told  her  that  he  had  lost  his  employment,  the 
world  had  turned  against  him,  and,  as  he  phrased  it,  he  had 
"regularly  gone  to  pot."  He  said,  "I  cannot  but  lay  it  to 
your  door.  But  let  bygones  be  bygones.  You  are  my  wife 
still,  and  I  appeal  to  you  for  help." 

As  Churchill  read  the  letter  his  face  hardened.  Bygones 
were  to  be  bygones,  and,  as  Christians  forgetting  and  for- 
giving, they  were  to  help  their  enemy.  So  likely ! 

Vickers  said  further,  "I  am  not  what  I  was.  I  have  been 
ill  and  am  still  very  weak ;"  and  he  described  other  misfor- 
tunes. "I  had  to  part  with  our  old  house,  and  sell  every 
stick  of  the  furniture.  As  you  will  see,  I  am  living  at 
Vernon  Buildings.  You  will  remember,  the  block  beyond 
Emanuel's,  by  the  railway.  .  .  .  You  know  me  well 
enough  to  be  sure  that  I  would  not  ask  you  this  if  things 
were  not  very  bad  with  me."  It  was  an  odious  letter. 
Plainly  enough,  Vickers  had  set  himself  the  task  of  writing 
such  a  letter  as  would  achieve  his  immediate  end — to  get 
money. 

"So  very  likely,"  thought  Churchill,  and  he  smiled  con- 
temptuously. 

"What  shall  I  reply?"  asked  Lilian. 

"Don't  reply  at  all.  If  any  one  replied,  I  would.  But  no 
reply  is  needed." 

Lilian  picked  up  the  letter  and  re-read  it. 

"Let  me  have  it,"  said  Edward,  and  he  folded  the  letter 

320 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  321 

and  put  it  in  his  breast  pocket.  "Don't  give  it  another 
thought.  His  troubles  and  his  sickness  and  all  the  rest  of 
it  are  probably  inventions.  He  wants  cash  to  buy  one  of 
your  successors  a  new  bonnet  perhaps,  and  it  has  occurred 
to  him  that  it  would  be  rather  a  humorous  notion  to  make 
you  pay  for  it." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  that  what  he  says  is  untrue.  If  he 
had  not  fallen  into  real  distress,  he  would  not  have  written. 
His  pride  must  be  completely  broken,  or  he  could  not  have 
made  such  an  appeal — an  appeal  for  pity." 

"Then  he'll  get  no  pity  from  me,"  said  Churchill  firmly. 
Nevertheless,  scarcely  knowing  why  he  troubled  to  do  so, 
he  wrote  to  Walsden  to  inquire  as  to  the  actual  state  of  the 
man's  circumstances;  and  during  the  next  three  days  he 
thought  often  of  the  man  himself.  Lilian  was  thinking 
about  him  too.  She  asked  to  look  at  the  letter  again  on 
two  occasions. 

"You  must  almost  know  it  by  heart,"  said  Edward  rather 
querulously.  In  fact,  he  himself  knew  it  quite  by  heart : 
he  had  looked  at  it  so  often. 

"I  wanted  to  see  what  he  says  about  Vernon  Buildings. 
Yes,  I  know  the  place  he  means.  Edward,  it  is  a  dreadful 
place.  He  must  have  fallen  very  low  to  go  there." 

Edward  shrugged  his  shoulders,  took  the  letter  from  her 
again,  and  went  out  for  a  stroll. 

As  he  walked  in  the  crisp  night  air  he  thought  of  his  first 
meeting  with  Vickers,  remembering  with  extraordinary 
clearness  that  early  impression — the  big,  loud-voiced  fellow, 
swinging  his  shoulders,  pushing  men  off  the  pavement, 
shouting  at  them  truculently — just  a  hulking  brute.  Think- 
ing of  later  impressions,  the  details  were  less  clear;  no 
strong  mental  picture  came.  He  remembered  the  ugly 
laugh,  the  swagger,  amid  the  streams  of  words  when 
Vickers  inveighed  against  the  ingratitude  of  the  men  who 
— as  he  now  declared — had  cast  off  their  allegiance  to  him ; 
but  the  rest  seemed  colourless,  almost  vague.  Then  he 
began  to  imagine  what  Vickers  had  been  like  as  a  young 
man  before  his  frame  grew  heavy,  his  face  coarsened,  and 
his  teeth  turned  yellow — or  as  a  boy,  when  he  was  slender, 
clean,  with  eyes  that  looked  out  frankly  at  a  world  full  of 


322  THE  MIRROR  AND,  THE  LAME 

decent  hopes  and  innocent  pleasures.  Even  as  a  boy,  could 
he  have  been  like  that  ? 

When  Churchill  returned  to  the  cottage  Lilian  was  putting 
last  touches  to  the  table  for  their  evening  meal.  It  was  all 
snug  and  bright  in  lamplight  and  firelight ;  her  pretty  face, 
pale  as  it  was,  lit  up  the  room  more  than  the  lamp  or  the 
fire ;  she  welcomed  him  as  always  with  a  smile,  and  suddenly, 
unbidden,  an  ugly  mental  picture  presented  itself  to  him — 
a  picture  of  darkness  and  coldness,  of  squalor  and  want,  of  a 
sick  man  who  once  had  been  strong  but  was  now  weak. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  meal  Lilian  asked  him  a  question. 

"If  Mr.  Walsden  says  it  is  true,  will  you  send  him 
anything  ?" 

"No.  .  .  .  Lilian,  how  can  we?" 

"No,  I  suppose  not.    In  any  case,  we  can't  afford  it." 

"It  is  not  that." 

"If  it  was  for  somebody  else — and  one  was  certain  he 
needed  help — would  you  try  to  help  him?" 

"Yes,  if  it  was  anybody  else — anybody  worth  helping — 
I  would  say  yes,  we  ought  to  help  him,  as  far  as  we  could 
without  detriment  to  ourselves." 

"That  is  what  I  feel,"  said  Lilian.  "It  seems  so  hard  to 
turn  a  deaf  ear  to  a  call  of  that  kind — a  cry  of  distress.  Not 
even  to  answer  the  letter !" 

"The  only  answer  he  wants  is  some  ready  money.  If  we 
don't  send  that,  no  other  answer  is  worth  sending." 

That  night  Churchill  thought  of  Vickers  waiting  for  the 
answer  that  would  never  come.  He  would  anxiously  expect 
it — calculating  on  the  pity  he  had  aroused,  estimating  their 
weakness  perhaps,  hoping  that  some  trick  of  conscience 
would  render  them  impotent  to  refuse.  He  would  taste  all 
the  bitterness  of  disappointment  then.  If  he  was  truly  weak 
and  ill,  he  would  lie  on  his  wretched  bed,  all  alone  perhaps, 
waiting  and  listening  until  some  one  passed  on  the  stairs, 
and  then  he  would  call  hoarsely  and  feebly,  begging  the 
passer-by  to  go  down  and  find  out  at  the  caretaker's  room 
if  the  postman  had  brought  him  a  letter. 

And  Churchill  thought  of  him  as  if  in  truth  he  had  been 
somebody  else,  a  stranger,  any  man,  worthy  or  unworthy, 
who  had  been  strong  but  was  now  weak,  and  who  uttered  a 
cry  of  distress,  calling  upon  his  fellow-men  to  help  him. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  323 

Next  morning  they  heard  from  Walsden.  It  was  true  that 
Vickers  had  severed  his  connection  with  the  Trade  Union, 
and  after  an  illness  had  left  the  house  where  he  had  lived 
for  so  long.  That  was  all  that  Walsden  could  tell  them. 

They  sent  Vickers  some  money,  and  from  time  to  time 
they  sent  him  a  little  more.  This  first  time  they  had  to  do 
it,  and  Lilian  said  it  made  her  easier  in  her  mind,  and 
Churchill  said  that,  wrong  or  right,  it  must  be  done,  but  the 
first  time  should  be  the  last  time. 

Lilian  dreaded  the  horrid  letters.  The  call  came  sometimes 
just  when  she  was  going  to  Exeter  to  buy  something  pretty 
or  useful  for  the  cottage  or  for  herself.  Answering  the  call 
meant  the  renunciation  of  a  small  desire,  the  sacrifice  of  per- 
sonal comfort;  but,  after  all,  what  did  it  matter?  Only  they 
had  still  further  complicated  their  relations  with  the  man. 
He  on  his  side  would  be  careful  now  not  to  publish  the 
facts  of  the  position,  since  if  he  brought  scandal  upon  them 
he  could  scarcely  hope  to  extract  further  Post  Office  orders. 
They  on  their  side  might  seem  to  be  paying  him  blackmail, 
buying  his  silence.  Anyhow,  if  any  hope  had  lingered  as  to 
the  possibility  of  a  divorce,  it  was  now  small  indeed. 

They  should  have  been  affluent  at  this  period.  Edward 
had  long  since  cleared  off  all  obligations  to  the  bank  and 
other  creditors,  making  it  his  first  care  to  repay  the  loan 
from  his  mother  and  doing  this  as  speedily  as  possible,  yet 
not  speedily  enough  to  escape  a  reminder  from  his  step- 
father, Mr.  Barrett.  Once  out  of  debt,  he  came  into  the 
enjoyment  of  his  full  private  income  of  a  hundred  per 
annum,  in  addition  to  the  annual  seventy-eight  pounds  of 
their  joint  emoluments.  This  was  more  than  ample;  but 
now,  in  the  twelve  months  that  followed,  the  secret  drain 
upon  their  resources  swamped  the  margin  of  ease. 

The  first  summer  at  Lips  ford  they  had  been  for  a  week's 
holiday  on  Dartmoor  with  Allan  Gates.  This  year  they  could 
not  go.  Allan  was  taking  a  fortnight's  holiday,  and  he  was 
disappointed  that  they  could  not  spend  even  half  of  it  with 
him.  He  delicately  hinted  that  if  the  question  of  expense 
prevented  them,  he  would  like  them  to  come  as  his  guests. 
They  refused ;  and  Allan  thought  that  their  real  reason  for 
refusing  was  because  they  wished  to  be  by  themselves,  and 
ceased  to  complain,  going  away  very  cheerfully,  nodding  and 


324  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

smiling  at  them  from  the  railway  carriage,  waving  a  hand- 
kerchief till  the  train  carried  him  out  of  sight. 

Edward  Churchill  knew  his  thought,  had  read  it  at  once, 
but  he  could  not  bear  that  it  should  continue.  There  must 
be  no  more  deception,  however  slight.  So  he  wrote  to  his 
friend  at  the  jolly  little  moor-side  inn,  telling  him  the  truth, 
saying  how  much  they  missed  him,  and  how  glad  they  would 
be  to  see  him  once  more  at  the  end  of  the  fortnight. 

Next  day  Allan  returned,  and  he  spent  his  holiday  with 
them  at  home  at  Lipsf  ord,  fishing  with  Edward  in  the  stream, 
teaching  Lilian  to  throw  a  fly,  carrying  their  improvised  tea- 
basket  up  the  Pack  Walk  to  the  tamely  pretty  hilltops.  The 
landscape  might  not  be  as  grand  as  Dartmoor,  nor  the  air  so 
keen  and  invigorating,  but  he  said  it  was  the  best  holiday 
of  his  life.  He  maintained  that  nothing  had  given  him  the 
true  holiday  feeling  in  such  full  measure  as  to  potter  about 
the  parsonage  garden  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  knowing  that  he 
need  not  put  on  his  jacket  until  he  chose  to  do  so;  and  the 
greatest  treat  of  all  was  when  he  went  to  church  to  hear  his 
substitute  preach  and  found  that  the  good  man  preached  no 
better  than  he  did  himself — if  so  well. 


XLI 

THEY  had  been  a  little  more  than  two  years  at  Lipsford 
when  Edward's  mother  died.  He  had  not  even  known  that 
she  was  ill,  and  the  letter  from  Mr.  Barrett  that  announced 
her  death  allowed  him  only  just  enough  time  to  get  to  Brigh- 
ton for  the  funeral.  "I  am  prostrated  with  grief,"  said  Mr. 
Barrett,  in  his  letter,  "and  shall  be  glad  of  your  support. 
You  will  understand  that  I  cannot  extend  the  invitation 
beyond  yourself." 

He  bought  a  suit  of  black  clothes  in  London,  where  he  was 
obliged  to  spend  a  night,  and  next  morning  early  he  travelled 
down  to  Brighton.  The  putting  on  of  these  mourning  gar- 
ments, the  journey,  its  cause  and  purpose,  seemed  to  him 
dreamlike  and  unreal.  In  the  train  he  listened  to  the  talk 
of  fellow-passengers,  watched  the  flying  landscape,  for  some 
time  could  neither  meditate  nor  reflect.  Then  he  found  him- 
self thinking,  "She  is  dead — the  mother  that  bore  me — and  I 
used  to  pray  that  I  might  die  when  she  died.  And  now  I  am 
going  to  her  funeral,  and  it  is  as  though  it  were  a  stranger's. 
I  am  not  even  able  to  think  of  it — my  mind  is  thronged 
with  quite  trivial  matters — the  most  stupid  fancy  seems  as 
important  as  the  gloomy  business  that  has  brought  me  here. 
How  is  that  possible?" 

Then  he  thought,  "Yes,  but  the  mother  I  loved  died  years 
ago.  My  true  mother  was  taken  from  me  when  she  broke 
our  compact,  and  forsook  me  for  another." 

But  immediately  he  felt  the  hard  egoism  of  this  thought, 
its  unworthiness,  its  cruelty — judging  the  dead,  condemning 
her,  forgetting  benefits  and  tender  care,  because  at  last  she 
ceased  to  live  only  for  him.  Could  it  be  possible  that  even 
for  a  moment  he  had  been  guilty  of  such  a  thought?  And 
there  came  rushing  back  on  him  memories  of  St.  Dunstan's. 
He  thought  of  her  only  as  she  was  then — the  friend,  the  com- 
forter, the  guardian  saint.  All  the  years  rolled  away,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  that  in  spirit  they  were  made  one  again. 
He  could  remember  now  nothing  that  was  not  sweet  and 
good.  Sadness,  and  still  deeper  sadness,  filled  his  heart. 

325 


326  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

At  the  house  on  the  East  Cliff  Air.  Barrett  welcomed  him, 
pressed  his  hand,  thanked  him  for  coming.  Mr.  Barrett 
looked  old  and  feeble.  A  nurse  in  hospital  uniform  helped 
him  to  put  on  his  black  overcoat,  and  at  intervals  he  gave 
a  sob.  The  nurse  felt  in  the  breast  pocket  of  the  overcoat 
and  told  him  he  had  another  handkerchief  there. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Barrett,  meekly  and  forlornly. 
"Ted,  you  will  come  in  the  first  coach  with  me.  Next  to  me, 
you  are  the  principal  mourner." 

The  funeral  party  gathered  in  a  room  that  looked  out  upon 
the  cliff.  Outside  all  was  bright  and  pleasant  to  the  eye, 
sunlight  and  movement,  people  walking  briskly,  carriages 
rattling  past.  Edward  was  looking  at  well-remembered  ob- 
jects in  the  room  itself — the  very  desk  at  which  he  had  sat 
with  her  at  his  "preparation,"  when  she  used  to  help  him; 
the  old  swing-chair;  a  water  colour  drawing  of  the  cathedral 
cloisters.  He  felt  like  some  one  in  a  haunted  house,  among 
ghosts  that  no  others  could  see,  seeing  them  himself  and 
hearing  their  voices.  He  could  see  his  mother  quite  plainly 
as  she  used  to  be. 

Then  he  was  alone  again  with  Mr.  Barrett,  in  the  mourn- 
ing coach,  driving  down  the  hill,  past  the  Pavilion,  and 
along  the  level  road  towards  the  lofty  viaduct. 

"Everybody  respected  her,"  said  Mr.  Barrett,  "and  looked 
up  to  her.  Did  you  see  the  flowers?  Everybody  has  sent  a 
wreath — and  some  very  costly  ones  too — last  mark  of  re- 
spect. We  had  made  our  circle — always  the  best  sort  of 
people;"  and  he  began  to  cry,  catching  his  breath,  and 
stifling  noisy  sobs.  "There,  I  must  be  patient  under  my 
affliction.  I  humbly  thank  Him  who  ordained  that  her 
last  days  were  easy.  I  never  left  her,  Ted,  except  to  get  a 
little  air  when  Dr.  Fry  made  me." 

"I  am  sure  you  were  good  to  her." 

"I  did  my  best,"  said  Mr.  Barrett  humbly.  "I  made  her 
happy.  Pore  soul,  she'd  had  a  rough  time  with  you  boys. 
Ted,  I  am  not  meaning  to  cast  a  stone.  You  were  the  kind 
one — the  one  she  valued  and  built  on,  until — well,"  and  he 
shook  his  head  sorrowfully.  "Ah  me,  that  was  a  terrible 
blow  to  her.  Couldn't  be  otherwise." 

"You  mean  my  leaving  the  Church  ?" 

"Yes,  the  whole  affair.    It  came  to  my  ears  first  of  all 


THE  MIRROR  AND.  THE  LAMP  32? 

through  a  side  wind,  and  I  tried  to  soften  the  blow.  I  told 
her  we  couldn't  at  a  distance  judge  the  facts." 

"I  would  have  come  to  her  to  explain  them,  had  she 
wished  it." 

"Ted,  she  did  not  wish  it.  And,  frankly,  no  more  did  I. 
Nothing  would  have  been  gained — and  I  could  not  urge  her 
to  receive  the  lady." 

"Please  leave  her  out  of  it." 

"There,  let's  say  no  more.  I  never  have  judged  you,  Ted 
— and  this  I  tell  you  because  I  know  your  naturally  kind 
heart.  The  grief  over  your  affair  did  not  hasten  her  end." 

"Indeed  I  hope  not." 

"No,  you  have  not  that  to  lay  on  your  conscience.  She 
was  ill  for  a  long  time." 

"I  wish  you  could  have  let  me  come  to  see  her  then." 

"She  never  suggested  it,  Ted." 

The  phrases  of  the  Burial  Service,  recited  by  Edward 
Churchill  himself  so  many,  many  times,  struck  upon  his  ear 
with  a  force  and  beauty  that  he  had  not  recognised  till  now. 
Resurrection,  and  the  life  of  the  world  to  come — yes,  if  only 
one  could  believe  it.  How  beautiful  the  words,  how  splendid 
if  there  lay  beneath  them  even  half  a  truth  to  justify  such 
hope.  For  him  they  held  no  gleam  of  hope;  they  were 
merely  beautiful  words.  He  stood  at  the  grave  side,  tears 
streaming  down  his  face,  torn  with  sorrow  and  regret.  An 
immense  sadness  and  pity  welled  up  and  possessed  him — pity 
for  his  poor  mother  that  she  might  not  a  little  longer  go 
about  in  the  sunlight ;  pity  for  Mr.  Barrett,  the  broken  old 
man,  who  had  wounded  or  insulted  him  always,  and  even 
just  now,  but  who  had  tried  to  do  his  best  for  her;  pity  for 
all  who  in  this  little  transitory  life  try  hard  and  fail ;  pity, 
above  all,  for  those  who  miss  or  mock  the  higher  joys  of 
human  love,  and  blandly  stretch  weak  hands  that  close  upon 
a  shadow. 

When  all  was  over  he  lingered  to  say  a  few  kind  words  to 
Mr.  Barrett,  who  clung  to  his  arm  and  thanked  him  again 
for  having  come. 

"Your  presence  has  supported  me,  Ted.  I  almost  feel  as 
if  I  couldn't  have  gone  through  it  without  you.  ...  Ah  me, 
what  shall  I  do?  I've  lost  my  companion,  and  I'm  too  old 
to  find  another." 


328  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

Edward  went  away  full  of  sorrow ;  but  it  was  as  if  some 
poison  that  for  a  long  time  had  tainted  his  blood  had  been 
washed  away  from  him  in  his  tears. 

The  feelings  aroused  by  the  death  of  his  mother  did  not 
quickly  fade.  Sadness  remained  with  him,  and  yet  inwardly 
he  felt  calmer,  more  at  rest.  Perhaps  of  late  he  had  found 
life  in  the  quiet  valley  too  narrow,  and,  unconsciously  grow- 
ing weary  of  its  stagnant  contentment,  had  begun  to  suffer 
mentally  because  he  could  not  satisfy  that  old  craving  for 
the  ideal  existence  in  which  action  blends  with  and  guides 
the  stream  of  thought ;  but,  if  so,  the  phase  had  now  passed. 
He  took  greater  interest  in  his  humble  task,  and  gave  to  it 
more  of  himself. 

He  had  been  prompt  with  sympathy  and  practical  advice, 
but  now  in  helping  others  he  attempted  the  great  lesson  of 
teaching  them  how  to  help  themselves.  Young  men  with 
aspirations  and  older  men  with  regrets  began  to  trust  him  as 
a  friend  who  never  failed.  All  this  had  begun  at  the  Library 
when  they  found  what  infinite  trouble  he  was  ready  to  take 
on  their  behalf,  and  again  at  his  evening  classes  when  a 
pupil  shyly  led  him  from  the  realm  of  generalities  to  some 
small  concrete  difficulty  of  everyday  life.  This  quality  of 
helpfulness  in  him  was  recognised  more  and  more  widely; 
so  that  it  came  to  be  talked  of  by  the  men  at  their  work. 

Thus,  one  day,  Mr.  Edrick  Burnage  heard  an  old  hand  in 
the  fulling  mill  speak  of  it. 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  fellow,  "Mr.  Gates,  he's  the  one  to 
hearten  yu  up  with  what  he  says.  But  if  yu  wa'ant  help, 
go  to  Mr.  Churchill.  Go  and  tell  un  yu'm  be  got  in  a  fix. 
He'll  put  down  what  he's  a-doing,  he'll  quit  his  food  or  his 
bed,  but  he  wun't  leave  yu  till  he's  helped  yu  through." 

Mr.  Burnage  was  well  pleased  in  overhearing  this  compli- 
ment to  a  useful  official,  and  he  thought,  not  by  any  means 
for  the  first  time,  that  the  family  had  obtained  a  very  service- 
able article  at  a  very  low  cost.  Indeed,  he  talked  of  him  with 
high  approval  in  the  family  circle,  and  as  a  result  of  one 
such  conversation  he  put  some  strange  questions  to  Allan 
Gates. 

"Tell  me,  Gates,  so  far  as  you  have  observed,  do  the 
Churchills  get  on  well  together?" 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  329 

"Yes,  of  course." 

They  are  really  a  united  couple — fond  of  each  other  and 
all  that,  not  merely  keeping  up  appearances  ?" 

The  blood  had  flushed  Allan's  olive-toned  cheeks,  and  he 
spoke  almost  angrily.  "No.  But  why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"Well,  not  from  any  wish  to  pry  into  people's  private 
affairs,  but  just  to  ascertain  the  fact.  I  should  think  nothing 
of  it  either  way,  except  for  their  peculiar  position  here  in 
our  society.  For  the  sake  of  example  one  could  not  very 
well  countenance  in  our  midst  a  divided  household,  or  the 
spectacle  of  a  man  and  wife  who  sustained  an  outward  show 
of  affection,  but  secretly  squabbled  and 

"They  do  not  squabble,"  said  Allan  warmly. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Mr.  Edrick.  "I  was  quite 
ready  to  believe  it.  I  suspected  that  my  informant  was  in 
error." 

"I  wonder  who  was  your  informant." 

"It  was  Mrs.  William.  She  entertains  a  good  opinion  of 
Churchill,  and  is  anxious  for  his  welfare,  but  her  observation 
has  misled  her.  Between  you  and  me,  Gates,  Mrs.  William 
is  not  the  wisest  of  people.  She  often  misunderstands 
things." 

"Edward  Churchill  is  not  easy  to  understand."  Allan's 
indignation  had  gone,  and  he  spoke  of  his  friend  with  a  quiet 
seriousness.  "He  is  a  very  beautiful  character.  The  love 
between  him  and — and — and  his  wife — is  most  beautiful. 
Nothing  could  ever  disturb  it;  nothing  will  ever  make  it 
change." 

Relieved  in  mind,  Mr.  Edrick  then  praised  Churchill 
cordially.  Churchill  was  a  valuable  asset  to  the  community. 
Gates  could  be  congratulated  on  having  found  a  person  of 
such  superior  qualifications. 

"How  did  you  first  hit  upon  him,  Gates  ?" 

"By  accident." 

"By  accident!  Well,  Gates,  many  valuable  discoveries 
are  made  by  accident,  if  the  truth  were  known.  My  great- 
grandfather discovered  what  we  call  the  Burnage  process  of 
lustering  by  accident.  But,  with  regard  to  Churchill,  I  hope 
he  knows  that  we  are  well  satisfied — and,  between  you  and 
me,  I  hope  we  shan't  ever  lose  him.  My  brother  Gordon 
expresses  wonder  that  he  should  be  contented  to  stay,  and 


330  THE  MIRROR  AND.  THE  LAMP 

believes  he  would  easily  find  scope  for  his  talents  in  a  more 
enlarged  sphere." 

"I  think  he  is  like  me  in  one  respect,  he  and  I  have  both 
done  with  ambition." 

"Well,  that  is  as  it  may  be.  Still  for  Churchill,  who  has 

the  advantage  of  you  in  years My  brother  Gordon  has 

gone  so  far  as  to  say  that  we  might  wisely  raise  Mr. 
Churchill's  salary,  rather  than  run  the  risk  of  losing  him 
after  our  relations  have  subsisted  on  such  a  pleasant  footing 
for  so  long.  That  is  a  matter  that  I  shall  be  quite  prepared 
to  consider,  although  I  do  not  think  we  are  justified  in 
welcoming  increased  expense  in  any  direction  at  the  present 
time." 

Mr.  Edrick's  hint  as  to  the  possibility  of  increased  emolu- 
ment did  not  lead  to  any  action;  but  an  addition  to  their 
means  came  to  the  Churchills  from  another  source. 

His  mother  had  bequeathed  a  hundred  a  year  in  trust  for 
her  "dear  son  Edward,"  with  power  of  appointment — as  was 
recited  by  a  copy  of  the  clause  in  the  will  sent  to  him  by  a 
Brighton  solicitor — to  his  legal  wife  or  any  child  or  children 
lawfully  begotten  in  holy  wedlock.  Failing  such  appoint- 
ment, the  money  at  Edward's  death  would  return  to  Mrs. 
Churchill's  widower  or  his  heirs  and  assigns. 

Edward  surmised  that  these  provisions  had  been  dictated 
by  the  avarice  of  Mr.  Barrett.  His  poor  mother  would 
scarcely  have  discriminated  so  nicely,  or  looked  so  very  far 
ahead,  if  she  had  not  been  assisted  by  some  one  who  was, 
as  well  as  a  strictly  orthodox  moralist,  a  trained  man  of 
business ;  but  Edward  bore  no  malice  to  anybody.  He  had 
expected  nothing.  He  accepted  the  bequest  with  gratitude. 

Thus,  once  again  they  had  enough  for  personal  comfort, 
enough  too  to  meet  the  hidden  drain  upon  their  purse,  and 
these  calls,  moreover,  for  a  little  while  had  ceased. 

But  their  renewed  affluence  was  soon  threatened.  There 
came  another  call  from  Vickers ;  a  cry  of  distress  louder, 
sharper,  more  definite  than  any  he  had  raised  before.  He 
was  desperately  ill,  helpless — hopeless,  if  they  did  not  listen 
to  his  cry.  For  the  moment  he  had  been  taken  into  a  hospital 
at  Chelsea;  but  he  would  not  be  allowed  to  remain  there, 
because  of  the  almost  permanently  incurable  nature  of  his 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  331 

case.  Soon  he  might  be  alone,  deserted,  abandoned  to  a 
miserable  death.  He  wanted  a  lot  of  money  for  nursing  and 
doctoring,  to  give  him  a  chance  of  recovery.  He  sent  with 
his  pencilled  letter  a  certificate  from  the  hospital,  and  the 
certificate  seemed  to  confirm  his  statement  that  he  was 
grievously  ill. 

"What  are  we  to  do?"  asked  Lilian. 

They  looked  at  each  other  blankly,  and  Edward  sat 
thinking.  Then  he  said,  "Lilian,  I  had  better  go  to  him. 
I'll  go  to  London  and  see  for  myself  what  can  be  done." 

"It  is  what  I  would  have  wished — that  some  one  should 
go.  But  we  might  ask  Allan  to  go.  Edward,  let  Allan  go 
instead." 

"No,  I'll  go  myself." 

He  obtained  leave  of  absence,  provided  himself  with  ready 
money,  and  went  up  to  London.  He  was  away  four  days, 
and  on  his  return  he  looked  tired  and  worried. 

He  said  that  Vickers  was  suffering  from  heart  trouble  and 
lung  trouble,  with  some  complications  of  intestinal  derange- 
ment that  he  did  not  pretend  to  understand.  But  the  doctors 
thoroughly  understood,  and  he  believed  implicity  in  their 
judgment  as  to  the  case.  Vickers  was  dying,  or  would  die 
unless  well  treated.  There  was  only  one  chance  to  save  him. 
He  could  receive  special  treatment  at  a  place  in  Staffordshire. 
It  was  an  establishment  known  to  and  recommended  by  the 
London  doctors.  At  this  place  Vickers  would  be  given  every 
chance  that  science  and  skill  could  devise.  The  chance  would 
be  a  good  one  that  he  might  be  patched  up  and  kept  alive 
for  many  years.  In  any  event  he  would  be  comfortable,  safe, 
well  cared  for,  at  this  Staffordshire  establishment.  But  the 
cost  of  the  cure  would  be  considerable.  The  doctors  said 
that  the  charges  would  amount  to  quite  £200  a  year. 

That  was  the  state  of  affairs. 

"Now  let  us  have  supper,"  said  Churchill.  "I'll  tell  you 
more  about  it  after  supper." 

Then,  after  their  meal,  they  sat  side  by  side  in  front  of  the 
fire.  Their  hands  were  linked,  and  Edward  stared  into  the 
heart  of  the  fire,  as  if  seeing  there  the  things  he  spoke  of, 
while  he  told  her  about  the  pitiful  state  of  Vickers,  his  thin- 
ness, his  shrunken  face  and  changed  voice.  He  described  how 
Vickers  had  pleaded  for  life,  praying  Churchill  to  move 


332  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

i 

heaven  and  earth  to  get  him  the  money — to  put  an  advertise- 
ment in  the  newspapers,  to  visit  charitable  organisations,  to 
go  to  his  old  societies  and  the  trade  union.  And  Churchill 
had  done  all  this.  "But,  Lilian,  the  advertisement  isn't 
likely  to  bring  any  response.  The  charities  can't  help  him. 
The  others  won't  help  him.  They  do  not  like  him.  They 
have  no  sympathy  with  him.  I  followed  all  his  directions, 
but  it  was  no  use.  So  then  I  came  back  to  tell  you;"  and 
he  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her. 

She  sat  silent,  her  hand  squeezing  his  spasmodically,  her 
lip  drooping  and  quivering. 

Then  he  spoke  again  of  the  man's  prayer  for  life.  "Lilian, 
it  was  very  painful  to  hear." 

Lilian  was  perturbed.  She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and 
it  was  some  time  before  she  spoke. 

"Edward,  is  there  no  one  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "ourselves.    There  is  no  one  else." 

But  the  thing  was  too  big  for  her ;  she  shrank  from  it  in 
dread.  Why  were  they  so  tormented?  Help  him — yes,  as 
much  as  was  reasonable,  more  perhaps  than  was  reasonable, 
but  not  in  such  a  gigantic  way  as  this. 

"Edward,  we  haven't  the  money." 

"Yes,  just  the  money,"  he  said;  and  he  put  the  circum- 
stances of  their  situation  before  her  in  plain  terms.  They 
had  just  two  hundred  a  year  of  their  own,  in  addition  to  their 
pay  here  at  Lips  ford.  If  they  gave  away  their  income  and 
then  happened  to  lose  the  pay,  they  might  starve  or  go  to  the 
workhouse.  But  they  were  still  young — that  is,  fairly  young ; 
they  had  no  children ;  at  the  worst  he  should  be  able  to  earn 
their  daily  bread  by  manual  labour.  "I  think,"  he  went 
on,  "that  probably  we  ought  not  do  it.  Anybody  would 
probably  say  so — that  it  would  be  the  act  of  fools.  I  seem  to 
feel  myself  that  it  would  not  be  right.  It  is  true  that  if  it 
were  only  once,  for  one  year,  and  he  died,  then  we  might  look 
back  on  it  with  satisfaction.  But  he  may  live  for  many  years. 
He'll  never  be  worth  anything,  and  we  shall  feel  bound  to  go 
on  with  it  as  long  as  we  can.  The  doctors  say  that  if  the  cure 
proved  a  success,  he  might  last  twenty  years  perhaps;  but 
there  would  be  no  work  in  him ;  he  would  always  be  a  burden 
and  an  expense." 

Here  before  them  were  the  logical  facts,  so  obvious  that 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  333 

one  could  not  avoid  seeing  them  plainly.  Here  was  a  man 
that  they  had  every  reason  to  wish  dead.  Then  surely  in  the 
name  of  reason  let  him  die.  Can  they  denude  themselves  in 
order  to  keep  him  alive  ? 

Churchill  said,  "I  can  only  do  it  if  you  consent.  That's 
clear  anyhow." 

Lilian  would  not  answer.  She  lay  awake  all  night,  and 
once  she  said,  "You  wish  to  do  it.  You  wouldn't  have  told 
me  in  this  manner  unless  you  wished  it." 

But  now  it  was  he  who  would  not  answer,  although,  as  she 
knew,  he  too  was  sleepless. 

He  could  not  sleep ;  he  was  harassed  by  doubts,  and  yet 
he  felt  the  call  to  do  it.  It  had  been  strong  upon  him  in 
London  this  morning ;  it  had  been  weaker  in  the  train,  and 
weaker  still  this  evening  as  they  sat  by  the  fire  talking  and 
thinking  rationally.  But  again  now  in  the  silence  of  night 
it  was  very  strong.  All  the  past  had  gone.  He  had  been 
conscious  of  this  when  he  entered  the  hospital  room  for  the 
first  time  and  saw  the  man  lying  in  bed.  It  was  impossible 
to  link  him  with  the  past,  impossible  to  remember  the  fierce, 
gasping  brute  with  whom  he  had  fought.  This  sick  man  was 
nothing  to  him — a  stranger — and  it  was  because  of  this,  per- 
haps, that  the  appeal  proved  so  overwhelming.  It  was  the 
irresistible  cry  of  weakness  to  strength — "Aid  me" — filling 
one  with  pity  and  discomfort,  taking  possession  of  one, 
giving  one  no  respite  until  one  can  shake  off  the  thoughts  it 
has  aroused  and  again  be  at  peace. 

He  tried  to  evoke  clear  memories  of  the  man  as  he  used  to 
be,  in  his  brutal  force  and  rage ;  to  stimulate  a  revival  of  his 
own  sensations  of  implacable  hatred ;  but  he  could  not  do  so. 
There  was  no  touch  of  rancour  in  the  recollection  of  how  he 
had  been  set  upon  and  beaten  in  accordance  with  the  sick 
man's  treacherous  plan.  Even  at  the  time  he  had  thought 
that  this  was  merely  tit  for  tat,  cleaning  the  slate,  crying 
quits  between  them.  Vickers  had  been  hated  only  because 
of  the  pain  he  had  caused  to  Lilian.  Except  for  his  sense- 
less vindictiveness,  they  would  now  have  been  married  for 
nearly  two  years ;  they  would  have  been  able  to  go  where 
they  pleased  ;  Lilian  would  have  suffered  no  discomfort  when 
meeting  other  women.  But  that  was  all  over  and  done  with. 
She  herself  had  ceased  to  care. 


334  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

How  can  one  nourish  resentment  against  one's  enemies, 
when  one  thinks  of  one's  failure  in  regard  to  those  one  pas- 
sionately loves?  If  where  one  strives  most  one  yet  fails, 
how  should  one  hope  for  satisfaction  under  the  more  feeble 
impulse  of  hate?  For  hatred  is  so  feeble  when  compared 
with  love.  It  was  never  strong  when  it  seemed  strongest; 
when  men  faithfully  obeyed  it,  worshipped  it,  made  it  their 
ruling  god.  It  is  a  fire  that  must  always  be  fed  and  watched ; 
if  for  such  a  little  while  one  forgets  it,  the  fire  dies  down 
and  fades.  It  is  dying  now  in  the  hearts  of  mankind,  and 
some  day  must  be  gone  forever,  whether  we  will  or  no.  With 
the  breath  of  a  whole  world  fanning  it,  it  cannot  burn  for 
long. 

How  can  one  go  on  hating  ?  It  is  not  worth  while.  Even 
to  try  to  do  so  is  futile.  One  must  be  sorry  for  all  men ; 
because  no  man  lives  who  does  not  merit  pity,  if  we  believe 
that  this  life  is  all. 

We  must  feel  compassion  for  others  each  time  that  we 
read  our  own  hearts  truly.  We  are  so  infinitely  small,  so 
completely  forgotten,  so  utterly  lost  except  to  ourselves ;  in 
the  vastness  of  the  universe  we  are  only  just  large  enough  to 
hold  a  little  love. 

Next  morning  Lilian  said,  "Yes,  do  it.  I  want  you  to  do 
it — say  for  my  sake,  if  you  like.  Yes,  I  ask  you  to  do  it,  for 
my  sake." 

And  Edward,  glowing  with  enthusiasm,  took  her  in  his 
arms  and  pressed  her  to  his  heart. 

"Lilian,  my  brave  darling,  you  are  better  than  I  am, 
stronger  than  I  am,  and  I  know  it  is  right." 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  stoutly,  "whether  it  is  right  or 
wrong.  But  I  know  we  had  better  do  it.  From  the  moment 
that  we  have  thought  it  all  out,  we  should  never  be  happy, 
unless  we  did  it." 

He  kissed  her  and  smiled  at  her,  and  said  that  in  these 
words  she  had  summed  up  the  whole  logical  theory  of 
altruism. 

Then  she  went  about  her  household  work,  thinking  with  a 
dull  despair  of  what  it  meant  to  her.  It  was  the  final  renun- 
'ciation  of  her  hope  for  the  peace  of  marriage,  with  a  settled 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  335 

home  and  children  at  her  knee.     She  must  not  hope  now, 
because  that  would  be  hoping  for  the  man's  death. 

And  Edward  Churchill  returned  to  London,  made  all 
arrangements  and  carried  them  through,  taking  his  invalid 
to  the  Home  in  Staffordshire  and  there  safely  establishing 
him.  Then  he  came  back  again  to  Devonshire,  and  felt  that 
he  had  been  a  fool. 


XLII 

THERE  were  no  more  trips  to  Exeter  to  buy  those  graceful 
little  ornaments  with  which  women  love  to  make  a  pretty 
home  still  prettier.  Much  that  tends  to  solid  comfort,  as  well 
as  decoration,  was  no  longer  attainable;  the  friendly  apple- 
cheeked  maidservant  had  been  dismissed;  Mrs.  Churchill 
was  her  own  servant  now,  and  Mr.  Churchill  did  the  heavier 
housework  while  ruminating  philosophical  theses  or  turning 
neat  periods  for  his  lectures  on  Eighteenth  Century 
Essayists. 

In  due  course  all  noticed  or  heard  of  their  changed  mode 
of  life,  and  many  demanded  its  explanation.  Naturally,  the 
first  to  do  so  was  Allan  Gates,  and  to  him  Edward  was  com- 
pelled, however  unwillingly,  to  tell  the  whole  truth  and 
nothing  but  the  truth.  To  others  it  was  merely  necessary 
to  state  that  their  private  means  had  been  unexpectedly 
reduced. 

Allan  Gates,  extorting  a  rather  reluctant  confession  of 
what  had  happened,  seemed  to  be  staggered  by  the  idea  of 
remote,  if  not  immediate,  consequences.  He  rubbed  his  nose 
with  unusual  vigour,  and  when  Lilian  came  in  and  out  the 
room,  he  glanced  at  her  ruefully. 

"I  almost  wish,"  he  said,  "that  you  had  consulted  me 
about  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Edward,  "I  think  perhaps  I  ought  to  have 
done  so.  I  consulted  her,  of  course.  I  have  acted  with  her 
approval." 

"Of  course." 

"You  think — you  don't  approve,  Allan?" 

"My  dear  old  boy,  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  It  does 
seem  rather  a  tall  order  for  both  of  you." 

But  Allan  knew  what  to  think  in  a  day  or  two,  and  by 
that  time  the  order  had  ceased  to  be  too  tall  for  him. 

He  said,  "It  is  fine.  It  is  a  gloriously  Christian  sacrifice. 
Edward,  if  you  had  honoured  me  by  asking  my  advice,  I 
should  have  urged  you  to  do  it." 

336 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  337 

"You  would  really,  Allan?" 

"Yes,  but  I  should  have  claimed  then  what  I  claim  now — • 
to  take  my  share  in  it.  You  can't  refuse." 

And  with  much  eagerness  he  tried  to  prevail  on  his  friend 
to  permit  him  to  carry  some  part  of  the  burden  that  they  had 
taken  up.  He  said  that  he  had  put  by  money,  not  much, 
but  a  nice  little  hoard,  nearly  a  hundred  pounds,  and  for  this 
he  had  no  possible  use.  Why,  then,  might  it  not  go  towards 
the  maintenance  of  Mr.  Vickers? 

"I  have  no  relatives,  nobody  with  any  claim  on  me;  the 
money  is  quite  my  own.  I  have  every  right  to  do  what  I 
please  with  it,  and  nothing  will  please  me  so  much  as  this." 

But  when  Edward  said  that  Allan  must  keep  his  small 
capital  intact  for  some  emergency  personal  to  himself,  he 
was  forced  to  own  that  he  had  no  private  income  of  any 
sort. 

"Why  should  I  want  money?  I  have  never  given  money 
a  thought.  As  I  say,  there  is  no  one  dependent  on  me.  My 
stipend  here  is  bigger  than  I  require.  That's  the  reason  why 
I  have  made  savings ;  and  I  shall  go  on  making  them." 

He  was  genuinely  grieved  by  his  friend's  obdurate  refusal. 

One  of  the  people  who  asked  troublesome  questions  and 
offered  an  active  sympathy  that  had  not  been  invited  was  a 
member  of  the  Burnage  family,  Mrs.  Draycott.  This  was  the 
tall  lady  with  large  eyes,  spoken  of  by  her  relatives  indiffer- 
ently as  Mrs.  William  and  Daphne.  One  could  not  help 
being  sorry  for  Daphne,  because  obviously,  as  Mr.  Edrick 
had  said,  she  was  not  very  wise,  and,  as  she  said  herself,  she 
was  unhappy ;  but,  suffering  from  the  vapid,  empty  character 
of  a  life  that  her  money,  her  fane  garments,  and  even  her 
headaches,  could  not  fill,  she  allowed  herself  to  lean  heavily 
on  others,  and,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  to  bore  them 
excessively.  She  had  leant  upon  Edward  Churchill,  and, 
sorry  as  he  felt  for  her,  he  could  not  escape  from  feeling 
bored  also.  Indeed  Daphne  developed  from  being  a  bore 
until  she  was  an  absolute  worry  to  him. 

Struck  by  one  of  his  lectures,  she  asked  for  help  about 
books.  She  visited  the  Men's  Library  at  inconvenient  hours, 
she  marked  the  margins  of  pages  and  underlined  long  pas- 
sages, she  wrote  him  little  notes  telling  him  to  bring  more 
books  to  the  Burnage  mansion  and  discuss  them  there  with 


338 

her  quietly.  He  would  have  thus  assisted  anybody,  and  of 
course  he  must  hold  his  leisure  at  the  disposal  of  Daphne  as 
a  member  of  the  family ;  requests  from  such  a  quarter  were 
somewhat  in  the  nature  of  orders.  He  obeyed  the  orders  as 
far  and  as  punctually  as  he  could. 

When  he  carried  the  books  to  the  big  house,  she  wasted  a 
lot  of  time  by  talking  of  everything  except  the  books  them- 
selves, although  that  was  what  he  had  come  for.  She  used  to 
receive  him  in  a  small  boudoir  which  appeared  to  be  her  own 
special  retreat,  although  that  jolly,  healthy  Miss  Adela  some- 
times came  prancing  in  and  out,  seeming  to  bring  a  breath  of 
fresh  air  with  her  and  making  Mrs.  William  close  her  eyes 
wearily.  Mrs.  William  was  so  woefully  tired  of  all  common- 
place phenomena.  She  would  rise  from  some  deep  chair  or 
couch  to  welcome  the  visitor,  and  then  subside  into  a  grace- 
ful attitude,  seated  on  the  arm  of  a  chair  or  reclining  against 
a  piano.  At  home  she  wore  loose  hanging  robes,  and  she 
herself  was  floppy.  She  would  hold  a  bunch  of  roses  to  her 
long  nose,  and  raise  her  dark  eyes  above  them,  and  tell 
him  that  flowers  were  the  most  beautiful  things  in  a  very 
ugly  world.  He  agreed,  and  promptly  unstrapped  his  par- 
cel of  books. 

"Thank  you ;"  and  she  gave  him  the  roses  to  smell,  and 
then  laid  them  on  her  lap. 

She  desired  his  help.  What  she  wanted  to  know  was,  Did 
he  think  it  was  too  late  for  her  to  open  her  mind  ?  She  her- 
self  thought  that  literature  might  be  a  solace.  She  might 
become  an  author.  She  said  that  if  she  wrote  the  story  of 
her  own  life,  it  would  be  the  most  wonderful  book  ever 
written.  "One  day  I  shall  have  to  tell  you  my  life.  You  will 
understand  it.  I  knew  from  the  beginning  that  you  were 
sympathetic." 

With  gentle  tact  Churchill  postponed  the  day  on  which  he 
was  to  hear  the  story  of  Mrs.  William's  life.  In  fact  that  day 
was  never  coming.  If  she  really  had  need  of  disburdening 
herself  in  this  manner,  he  must  refer  her  to  Allan  Gates. 
Confessions  belonged  to  his  department. 

But  Daphne  was  fond  of  confidences,  and  if  she  might  not 
herself  confide,  she  asked  other  people  to  confide  in  her. 
Soon  she  invited  Edward  to  a  friendly  confidential  exercise. 
With  a  prelude  of  apology,  she  asked  him  if  he  was  happy  in 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  339 

his  married  life.  When  he  replied  that  he  was  absolutely 
happy  she  said  she  was  very  glad. 

"It  has  been  on  my  mind.  I  don't  know  why.  My 
own  bitter  experience,  perhaps,  makes  me  look  for  that 
explanation  whenever  I  think  people  are  not  happy." 

She  accepted  his  assurance,  and  yet,  at  a  later  period,  this 
strange  idea  must  have  come  upon  her  mind  again,  because 
she  passed  it  on  to  Mr.  Edrick. 

She  told  Churchill  she  felt  sure  there  had  been  a  tragedy 
in  his  life.  "Tell  me  what  it  is.  Trust  me." 

He  parried  all  such  questions.  "I  am  thirty- four,"  he  said, 
smiling.  "It  would  be  odd  if  there  had  been  no  trouble  or 
sorrow  in  my  life,  but  there  is  nothing  of  the  least  interest. 
From  an  ordinary  point  of  view,  my  life  has  been  unevent- 
ful." 

"Ah,"  she  said,  wearily  closing  her  eyes,  "you  won't  trust 
me.  I  think  you  are  wrong." 

And  she  sent  him  a  copy  of  verses  on  the  subject  of  Trust- 
fulness, and  seemed  willing  that  he  should  suppose  they  were 
her  own  composition.  He  did  not  suppose  it ;  because,  bad 
as  the  verses  were,  they  would  have  been  worse  if  they  had 
come,  as  children  say,  out  of  Mrs.  William's  own  head. 

She  soon  gave  up  the  notion  of  becoming  an  author,  but 
she  did  not  abandon  her  new  interest  in  literature,  and  she 
presently  asked  Edward  for  some  volumes  on  metaphysics, 
and  was  disappointed  when  he  said  there  were  none  in  the 
Library.  She  said  he  must  make  a  list  of  very  superior 
books,  and  she  would  buy  them  next  time  she  went  to 
London  and  present  them  to  the  Library. 

She  was  often  away  from  Lips  ford,  going  to  London  for 
relaxation,  or  to  Harrogate  and  Buxton  for  the  good  of  her 
health.  She  said  she  adored  London.  "To  me  it  is  so 
wonderful,  so  different  from  anywhere  else.  But  I  feel  alone 
there — alone  in  a  crowd.  I  take  Mrs.  Prince  with  me,  but 
she  does  not  count.  She  is  no  companion.  There  is  no  one 
there  like  you,  with  whom  I  can  exchange  ideas.  When  I 
have  been  looking  at  beautiful  pictures  or  listening  to  ex- 
quisite music,  I  want  to  remain  silent,  for  quite  a  long  time ; 
but  after  that  I  want  to  utter  all  my  thoughts  and  have  them 
understood  in  a  moment.  It  is  the  same  thing  as  the  theatre. 
I  am  lifted  out  of  myself ;  but  afterwards  comes  the  longing 


340  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

for  sympathy,  for  comprehension.  I  am  afraid  I  am  very 
unconventional,  but  only  a  man's  intellect  is  strong  enough  to 
give  the  communion  of  spirit  that  we  poor  women  need  in 
our  highest  moment.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Prince — well,  you  know 
what  Mrs.  Prince  is." 

Mrs.  Prince  was  one  of  the  nondescript  middle-aged  ladies 
who  were  connected  with  or  adopted  by  the  Burnage  family, 
wife  to  the  large  man,  and,  although  Edward  did  not  really 
know  much  of  her,  he  could  understand  that  she  would 
necessarily  fail  as  recipient  of  Daphne's  vapourings  about 
art  and  the  drama.  Mrs.  Prince  was  altogether  too  domestic 
and  prosaic. 

One  winter  afternoon  when  Daphne  had  returned  from 
London,  after  a  round  of  gaiety,  she  came  straight  to  the 
Library,  and  Lilian  happened  to  meet  her  there.  Daphne  had 
brought  books,  and  they  were  spread  out  on  the  big  table  in 
the  middle  of  the  room  for  Churchill's  examination.  Daphne, 
dressed  in  rich  furs,  with  a  bunch  of  Parma  violets  at  her 
neck,  sat  upon  the  edge  of  the  table  in  a  graceful  attitude, 
while  Edward,  leaning  on  the  far  side  of  the  table,  pored 
over  the  new  volumes.  There  was  nobody  else  in  the  place, 
until  Lilian  appeared.  When  she  came  in  Edward  stood  up, 
and,  the  table  suddenly  tilting,  Mrs.  William  nearly  sat  down 
upon  the  floor.  The  new  books  followed  her  in  a  cataract. 
It  was  really  rather  ridiculous,  because  Mrs.  William  had 
been  cut  short  and  nearly  upset  in  the  midst  of  quite  a  high 
flight  of  eloquence;  but,  recovering  equilibrium,  she  pre- 
served her  full  dignity  and  did  not  seem  at  all  confused. 

"Your  husband  is  quite  wonderful,"  she  said.  "There 
is  nothing  that  he  has  not  read,  and  nothing  that  he  cannot 
understand.  I  am  sure  you  must  be  very  proud  of  him." 

Lilian  replied  rather  stiffly  to  these  compliments.  The 
fact  was  she  had  heard  too  many  of  them,  and  for  her  own 
reasons  she  could  not  support  them  any  longer  with  perfect 
equanimity.  In  the  early  days  Mrs.  William  had  called 
at  the  cottage  two  or  three  times,  but  Lilian  did  not  take  to 
her  very  kindly  even  then.  Mrs.  William's  languishing  grace 
and  slow,  graceful  gestures  failed  to  charm,  and  the  compli- 
ments to  Edward,  who  was  not  present  on  these  occasions, 
soon  began  to  pall.  One's  pride  in  those  one  loves  is  not 
a  matter  that  one  can  easily  discuss  with  fresh  acquaintances, 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  341 

nor  does  one  ordinarily  enjoy  having  the  duties  that  love 
commands  pointed  out  to  one  by  strangers. 

"I  shall  come  to  hear  you  on  Thursday,"  said  Mrs. 
William,  shaking  out  her  furs  and  readjusting  her  violets. 
"The  usual  time,  I  suppose.  Eight  o'clock." 

Other  members  of  the  family  went  to  Edward's  evening 
lectures  at  the  Institute  at  long  intervals,  as  a  politeness  or 
for  business  purposes — Mr.  Gordon,  to  make  sure  that  the 
lighting  arrangements  were  satisfactory,  without  danger  of 
fire ;  Mr.  Edrick,  perhaps  to  ascertain  that  the  discourse  did 
not  trench  upon  political  economy  or  contain  any  ideas  of 
an  unsettling  nature.  But  Mrs.  William  went  always  when 
she  was  in  Lipsford,  as  if  to  a  great  treat,  glad  to  renounce 
her  dinner  for  a  lecture.  Lilian  several  times  saw  her  there, 
sitting  always  in  the  same  chair,  looking  very  grand  with  her 
big  hat  and  velvet  cloak,  sniffling  at  a  bottle  of  salts,  half 
closing  her  eyes  and  opening  them  prodigiously.  When  the 
lecture  was  over  she  always  said  it  had  been  "wonderful." 
She  said  this  to  Mr.  Gates,  to  the  overseers,  to  anybody ;  and 
she  said  to  Edward,  if  she  got  near  enough,  that  it  had  taken 
her  out  of  herself,  and  she  wished  it  hadn't  stopped  so  soon. 

Allan  Gates,  at  supper  with  the  Churchills  one  evening 
after  a  lecture,  said  facetiously,  "Old  boy,  you  have  made 
quite  a  conquest.  You  have  completely  bowled  over  Mrs. 
William." 

The  kindest  people  say  the  wrong  thing  sometimes,  and 
poor  Allan  said  it  then. 

Lilian  did  not  care  for  his  remark ;  she  could  not  see  any 
joke  in  it,  and  after  he  had  gone  she  told  Edward  her  opinion 
of  Mrs.  William  quite  seriously. 

"I  dislike  her  very  much,  and  I  hope  you'll  never  give  her 
the  very  least  encouragement." 

"Lilian,  my  dear  girl,  how  can  you  talk  so  absurdly  ?" 

"It's  not  absurd.  That  woman  would  come  between  us 
if  she  could."  And  she  added  proudly,  "I  am  not  a  bit 
afraid  of  her.  But  I  don't  like  it." 

And  she  spoke  of  Mrs.  William  again  that  evening,  smil- 
ing at  him  now,  with  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders. 

"Edward,  I  am  not  much  to  look  at — but  you  couldn't 
prefer  a  faded,  affected  thing  like  that,  could  you  ?" 

All  this  was  utterly  absurd,  but  it  was  none  the  less  annoy- 


342  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

ing.  Edward  was  no  better  pleased  with  Allan's  silly  attempt 
at  a  joke  than  Lilian  had  been.  Before  this  he  had  often 
felt  a  certain  constraint  and  awkwardness  in  Mrs.  William's 
company,  and  henceforth  these  sensations  were  accentuated 
by  recalling  Lilian's  extraordinary  and  unique  flash  of 
jealous  doubt.  Everything  chivalrous  in  his  nature  recoiled 
from  admitting  for  a  moment  that  there  might  be  a  shadow 
of  substance  to  justify  the  imputation  against  the  unfortu- 
nate and  embarrassing  Daphne.  But  the  thought  of  how 
easily  people  and  things  can  be  misinterpreted  rendered  him 
uncomfortable,  and  gave  Daphne  power  to  be  for  a  time  a 
real  worry. 

Then,  fortunately,  she  went  to  Harrogate  again. 

It  was  when  she  came  back  to  Lipsford  that  she  heard  of 
the  altered  circumstances  of  the  Churchills  and  rushed  to 
their  rescue.  That  she  meant  well  no  one  could  doubt,  but 
really  she  was  silly  and  precipitate  in  jumping  to  such  large 
conclusions.  She  seemed  to  think  that  the  poor  souls'  need 
was  so  great  that  even  their  daily  bread  might  be  in  jeopardy, 
'and,  eager  to  alleviate  their  more  immediate  distress,  she 
arrived  at  the  cottage  with  a  parcel  of  provisions  in  her  hands 
and  a  consignment  of  tinned  fruit  on  the  front  seat  of  the 
carriage.  One  of  the  gardeners  from  the  big  house  followed 
with  an  immense  hamper  of  vegetables. 

"There,"  she  said  breathlessly  to  Lilian.  "Now  tell  me 
everything  about  it.  I  am  sorry.  I  never  slept  a  wink  last 
night,  from  thinking  about  it.  What  has  happened  ?" 

It  was  very  difficult  to  satisfy  her  sympathetic  question- 
ings; or  to  persuade  her  to  believe  that  they  were  not 
hungry,  and  that,  even  if  famished,  they  could  never  eat 
so  many  vegetables. 

"But,"  said  Daphne,  "vegetables  are  invaluable  if  you 
know  all  you  can  do  with  them.  I  do  not  know  myself — 
I  am  so  ignorant.  But  Ethel  Prince  knows.  I  will  bring 
Ethel  Prince." 

Then  Daphne  and  Mrs.  Prince  came  together;  and  Mrs. 
Prince,  in  a  quiet,  bustling,  capable  way,  told  Lilian  that  it 
was  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  man  is  really  or  necessarily  a 
meat-eater.  Vast  geographical  tracts  are  peopled  with  races 
who  scarcely  ever  touch  meat.  The  best  doctors  are  now 
agreed  that  we  Britons  eat  too  much  meat.  She  herself  had 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  343 

for  some  time  been  leading  her  husband,  Mr.  Prince,  towards 
the  vegetarian  habit;  and,  although  as  a  person  of  large 
frame  not  free  from  prejudices,  he  hung  back  a  little,  he  was 
already  better,  yes,  better,  for  her  treatment.  He  was  less 
inclined  to  be  drowsy,  more  talkative  after  his  meals. 

"Believe  me,"  she  said,  "Mr.  Churchill  will  not  suffer  by 
the  change.  To  one  of  his  ascetic  temperament  and  energetic, 
intelligent  character,  it  will  come  as  a  revelation." 

And  she  proposed,  if  Lilian  permitted,  to  demonstrate 
there  and  then  how  easy  it  was  to  make  three  kinds  of 
nourishing  cabbage  soup  and  one  appetising  tomato  ragout. 

Lilian  submitted  to  this  lesson,  but,  being  so  very  anxious 
to  get  rid  of  her  visitors  at  the  time  and  to  escape  more 
visits  from  them  in  the  future,  she  perhaps  did  not  show 
adequate  pleasure  or  offer  as  gracious  thanks  as  had  been 
expected.  Mrs.  Prince  had  rather  a  huffy  air  at  the  end  of 
the  lesson,  and  she  told  Daphne  afterwards  that  Mrs. 
Churchill  was  a  stuck-up,  foolish  person. 

"I  don't  know  what  she  may  have  been,  but  she  thinks 
herself  above  her  station,"  said  Mrs.  Prince.  "She  is  useless 
in  a  house.  If  you  wish  to  assist  them,  you'll  have  to  do  it 
through  the  husband." 

Daphne  was  already  trying  to  assist  Edward  with  some- 
thing more  substantial  than  cabbage  soups.  She  made  a 
proposal  to  him  that  the  counsel  and  guidance  he  had  so 
freely  given  her  should  now  be  continued  in  a  regular,  busi- 
nesslike manner ;  that  they  should  become  teacher  and  pupil ; 
and  that  he  should  accept  a  handsome  remuneration  for  a 
course  of  interviews — say,  three  afternoons  a  week,  an  hour 
at  a  time,  at  hours  convenient  to  himself. 

He  told  her  that  this  was  impossible.  He  was  already  in 
receipt  of  a  sufficient  payment  for  all  his  services  to  the 
community. 

"Indeed  you  are  not,"  said  Daphne,  with  indignation. 
"It  is  a  beggarly  pittance.  It  makes  me  ashamed  to  think 
of.  I  mean  to  tell  my  cousin  Edrick  that  it  must  be  in- 
creased, and  very  much  increased,  at  once." 

"No,  please  don't  do  that.  Mrs.  Draycott,!  beg  you  as 
a  favour  not  to  do  that." 

"Then  what  am  I  to  do?"  said  Daphne  disconsolately. 
"You  refuse  everything.  You  won't  trust  me— you  won't 


344  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

let  me  be  helpful ;"  and  she  seemed  as  though  his  obduracy 
might  reduce  her  to  tears. 

Edward,  in  dread  of  such  a  catastrophe,  hurriedly  assured 
her  that  he  appreciated  her  kind  thoughts,  although  he  could 
not  avail  himself  of  them. 

"Truly,  Mrs.  Draycott,  we  need  no  help.  You  are  very 
kind.  Don't,  please,  trouble  about  us." 

"But  I  do  trouble.  I  can't  help  it.  It  makes  me  so  un- 
comfortable. And  if  you  won't  let  me  put  things  on  a  busi- 
ness footing,  how  can  I  go  on  trespassing  on  your  time  and 
your  own  occupations  ?  It  will  mean  that  I  must  not  come 
to  the  Library  to  have  one  of  our  talks.  And  there  are 
things  I  am  dying  to  talk  of." 

He  replied  to  the  effect  that  now  and  always  he  was  at  her 
disposal  as  a  salaried  servant  of  the  family,  that  the  Library 
was  a  public  place,  and  that  the  librarian  was  there  to  be 
talked  to.  What  else  could  he  say  ? 

So  it  happened  that  during  the  pleasant  September  weather 
of  their  third  year  at  Lips  ford  he  spent,  in  following  Daphne 
through  another  of  her  vagaries,  many  half-hours  that  might 
have  been  better  and  more  profitably  employed.  It  was 
philanthropy  this  time.  Literature  had  receded  into  a  dim 
background  of  headachy  recollections.  She  wanted  to  ame- 
liorate the  lot  of  mankind,  and  she  wished  Mr.  Churchill  to 
tell  her  how  to  set  about  it.  At  Harrogate  she  had  met  a 
lady  who  did  "slumming"  in  one  of  the  great  industrial 
centres,  and  this  lady  said  that  the  immorality,  the  distress, 
the  general  condition  of  the  poor,  were  far  worse  than  in 
London. 

"I  doubt  if  that  is  possible,"  said  Churchill.  And  he  told 
her  a  little  about  life  among  the  London  poor,  as  he  had 
seen  it. 

She  was  intensely  interested,  and  she  asked  why  could  not 
she  do  what  her  Harrogate  friend  and  other  noble,  unselfish 
women  did — go  about  among  wonderful  people,  helping 
them,  and  be  lifted  completely  out  of  herself.  The  family 
would,  of  course,  object.  But  she  was  prepared  to  defy 
their  old-fashioned,  conventional  prejudices.  They  deserved 
defiance  as  punishment  for  their  failure  ever  properly  to 
understand  her. 


345 

Churchill  thought  it  would  be  a  pity  to  upset  the  family, 
and  suggested  that  as  a  beginning  she  might  start  her  good 
work  nearer  home.  He  told  her  of  his  belief  in  a  rule  of  life 
that  made  one  do  always  first  the  things  that  are  nearest 
one's  hand.  He  spoke  quite  earnestly,  sympathising  with 
Daphne  in  this  her  new  enthusiasm.  It  was  finer,  if  not 
likely  to  be  less  evanescent,  than  other  of  her  fancies. 

"Every  day,"  he  said,  "I  become  more  and  more  con- 
vinced that  it  is  not  necessary  to  run  about  the  world  seeking 
how  and  where  one  can  do  the  most  good.  The  calls  come  to 
one,  wherever  one  is.  If  one  answers  the  call  one  hears 
plainest,  if  one  does  the  thing  nearest  one's  hand,  it  is  better 
for  one's  own  happiness — and  it  is  enough.  When  the  time 
comes  that  we  are  all  doing  it,  there  will  be  no  more 
unhappiness  in  the  world." 

"But  what's  nearest  to  me  ?    What  call  ?    Exeter  ?" 

"No,  you  might  begin  here." 

"Here!"  said  Daphne,  with  a  gesture  of  fatigue  and 
disgust.  "What  can  I  do  here?  Do  you  suppose  I  should 
be  allowed  to  do  anything — even  if  there  was  anything  to 
do?  Mr.  Churchill,"  and  Daphne  showed  emotion,  "it's 
unkind,  if  you  are  laughing  at  me." 

"Indeed  I  am  not." 

"Then  what  do  you  mean  ?  There  are  no  slums — nothing 
approaching  to  a  slum — here  at  Lipsford." 

"Then  I  mean  I  should  not  trouble  about  slums,  if  I  were 
you." 

But  Mrs.  William  said  she  must  trouble,  because  slums — 
real  slums — were  on  her  mind ;  and  from  what  he  had  already 
let  fall,  she  now  thought  her  friend  was  wrong  and  that 
London  slums  were  the  best — that  is,  the  worst.  She  begged 
him  to  tell  her  some  more  about  them. 

"It's  enthralling,"  she  said,  with  admiration.  "You  have 
seen  these  things  yourself?  You  have  lived  among  them — 
in  the  real  true  East  End  of  London?" 

"Yes,  I  was  working  in  the  East  End  for  a  considerable 
time." 

"What  part  of  it?    Where  exactly?" 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  told  her  that  it  was 
the  parish  of  St.  Bede's. 


346  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

A  few  days  after  this  conversation  she  brought  to  the 
Library  a  copy  of  an  illustrated  magazine  and  showed  it  to 
him. 

"St.  Bede's !"  she  echoed.  "I  have  heard  something  about 
St.  Bede's — no,  I  read  something  about  it— only  the  other 
day.  I  know  I  did.  St.  Bede's !" 

"See,  Mr.  Churchill.  I  knew  I  was  right.  Here  is  an 
article  all  about  a  wonderful  place  at  St.  Bede's." 

The  article  was  one  of  a  series  called  "Odd  Corners  of 
the  Labyrinth,"  and  it  concerned  itself  with  Denmark  House. 
There  were  photographs  of  the  outside  of  the  house  and  the 
inside  of  the  house,  of  people  sitting  in  the  rooms,  and 
grouped  together  on  the  stairs.  The  writer  praised  the 
House,  calling  it  in  the  course  of  his  article  a  haven  of  rest, 
a  harbour  of  refuge,  and  a  secure  shelter  for  all  who  had 
been  storm-tossed  on  the  ocean  of  life,  and  saying  that, 
as  an  institution,  it  had  been  started,  set  going,  put  on  foot 
by  the  benevolence  of  a  wealthy  curate  of  the  parish. 

Edward  Churchill  glanced  through  the  article,  and  saw 
that  the  curate's  name  was  not  mentioned. 

"Do  you  know  the  place  yourself?"  asked  Daphne,  taking 
the  magazine  again  to  have  another  look  at  the  pictures. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  know  it  well." 

"But  it  is  beautiful,"  she  said.  "It  is  not  a  bit  like  a 
slum." 

"No,  it  is  different  from  the  rest  of  the  neighborhood." 

"One  day,"  said  Daphne,  with  enthusiasm,  "you  must 
take  me  to  see  it.  Mr.  Churchill,  it  must  be  arranged  some- 
how for  you  to  come  to  London  some  time  when  I  am  there. 
Mrs.  Prince  suffocates  me  in  London.  I  must  have  some  one 
to  talk  to." 

She  harped  on  this  idea  more  than  once,  and  finally  in 
October  told  him  that  she  was  off  to  the  metropolis  and 
invited  him  to  come  too.  She  must  be  allowed  to  defray  all 
the  costs  of  this  excursion,  and  he  ought  to  consent.  He 
could  stay  at  what  hotel  he  pleased,  and  she  would  not 
attempt  to  monopolise  all  his  time.  But  he  should  escort 
her  to  theatres,  concerts,  picture  galleries,  and  perhaps  show 
her  some  wonderful  places  and  wonderful  people.  They 
would  both  be  lifted  right  out  of  themselves,  and  it  would 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  347 

do  them  all  the  good  in  the  world.  This,  perhaps,  she 
thought  was  doing  the  thing  nearest  to  her  hand. 

"What  is  the  use  of  being  so  conventional?"  she  argued. 
"Why  mayn't  one  be  happy  and  enjoy  oneself  now  and  then 
in  one's  own  way  ?  You  never  have  a  holiday.  You  never 
get  a  change." 

He  regretted  that  he  could  not  accept  the  invitation,  and 
said  that,  as  a  fact,  he  might  have  to  go  to  Staffordshire  on 
business.  That  would  give  him  sufficient  change. 

"Then  come  on  to  London,"  Daphne  urged,  "after  you 
have  done  your  business  in  Staffordshire.  Why  not  ?  I  am 
sure  Mrs.  Churchill  would  not  object.  May  I  ask  her  if  she 
will  spare  you?" 

"No,  please  don't,"  said  Churchill  gravely.  "I  could  not 
in  any  case  leave  her  alone  while  I  was — amusing  myself 
in  London." 

Daphne  half  closed  her  eyes,  considered,  and  spoke  with 
sudden  decision. 

"Then  bring  her  too.  Yes,  bring  her  to  London  with  you. 
I  am  sure  she  and  Mrs.  Prince  will  be  able  to  entertain  each 
other  very  well." 

Not  too  tactfully  he  declined  this  enlarged  invitation  also, 
and  Daphne  seemed  wounded  as  well  as  disappointed.  On 
the  following  day  she  went  to  London,  and  he  thought  no 
more  about  her. 

But  one  evening  only  a  few  days  later  he  saw  the  Burnage 
brougham  with  the  luggage  cart  on  its  way  to  the  station, 
and  he  heard  that  Mrs.  William  and  Mrs.  Prince  had  come 
back  again.  Evidently  this  particular  trip  to  London  had  not 
been  a  great  success. 


XLIII 

NEXT  morning  he  and  Allan  Gates  were  summoned  to  the 
big  house  to  meet  the  family.  Each  carried  with  him  various 
accounts  and  papers ;  for  it  was  the  custom  of  the  family  to 
hold  informal  meetings,  under  the  presidency  of  Mr.  Edrick, 
at  which  the  social  progress  of  the  community,  plans  for 
future  improvement,  and  reports  on  past  efforts,  were  dis- 
cussed by  all  concerned. 

These  meetings,  as  Mr.  Edrick  said,  rendered  easier  their 
common  endeavour,  and  he  wished  everybody  to  give  his 
personal  views  with  freedom.  Often  the  big  dining-room 
was  full  of  people,  and  the  debate  lasted  a  long  time,  because, 
thus  encouraged  by  the  president,  even  the  least  important 
personages  liked  to  have  their  say. 

To-day,  however,  it  appeared  that  the  meeting  was  to  be 
quite  a  small  affair.  The  dining-room  had  been  prepared  as 
usual,  with  the  mahogany  table  laid  bare  and  seats  ranged 
about  it,  but  only  Mr.  Edrick,  Mr.  Gordon,  and  Mr.  Prince 
were  in  position  at  the  table,  while  old  Mrs.  Burnage,  un- 
supported by  other  ladies  of  the  family,  sat  in  a  high-backed 
chair  near  the  fire.  Evidently  nobody  else  was  expected, 
because  Mr.  Edrick  opened  the  proceedings  at  once. 

"Sit  down,  please.  Don't  undo  your  papers,  Gates.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Churchill,  the  business  in  hand  is,  I  regret,  of  a  rather 
painful  character;  but  I  am  sure  it  is  best  to  come  straight 
to  the  point.  Have  I  your  permission  to  do  so  ?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Churchill. 

"Well  then,"  said  Mr.  Edrick,  suavely  and  almost  depre- 
catingly,  "a  relative  and  connection  of  ours  happened  the 
other  day  to  visit  a  part  of  London  where  you,  as  I  now 
understand,  are  well  known,  and  there  they  heard  certain 
allegations — I  should  say,  information  concerning  you.  I 
must  not — we  none  of  us  think  it  right  to  accept  this  infor- 
mation as  correct  until  you  have  had  an  opportunity  of 
denying  the  facts  mentioned ;  but  it  is  only  fair  to  add  that 
we  have  also  felt  it  right  to  consider  and  resolve  upon  our 
course  of  action  if  you  are  unable  to  deny  them." 

348 


349 

"Please  tell  me  the  allegations." 

"To  begin  with,  that  you  are  a  clergyman  of  the  Church 
of  England." 

"I  was  one,  but  I  have  ceased  to  be  one." 

"Just  so.    But " 

"One  moment,"  Allan  Gates  interposed  firmly.  "I  want 
to  say  at  once  that  I  was  aware  of  this  fact  from  the 
beginning." 

"No,"  said  Churchill.  "You  forget,  Allan.  I  did  not 
tell  you  till  after  I  had  been  here  for  a  long  time." 

"But  I  guessed  it,"  said  Gates. 

"Oh,  you  guessed  it,  Gates?"  said  Mr.  Edrick.  "But 
you  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  tell  me  or  any  of  us  ?" 

"No,"  said  Gates,  very  firmly.  "Why  should  I?  It 
did  not  concern  you  or  any  of  us.  It  was  entirely  Churchill's 
own  affair.  He  was  coming  here  to  perform  secular  duties, 
and  he  has  performed  them  admirably.  I  had  every  con- 
fidence in  him,  and  my  confidence  has  been  thoroughly 
justified." 

Mr.  Edrick  looked  at  his  brother,  and  then  again  at  Gates. 
"On  the  whole,"  he  said  mildly  and  courteously,  "I  think 
you  may  not  have  been  wrong  in  taking  that  view.  No,  all 
things  considered,  I  do  not  know  that  this  circumstance 
greatly  concerned  us ;  although  naturally  we  should  have 
preferred  to  know  the  exact  status  of  any  one  with  whom  we 
were  brought  into  close  relations." 

Old  Mrs.  Burnage  was  taking  no  part  in  the  proceedings, 
but  she  had  said  something  to  herself  in  a  grumbling  tone, 
and  all  turned  toward  her  for  a  moment.  Mr.  Edrick  seemed 
to  interpret  her  slight  disturbance  as  a  hint  to  abridge  the 
talk  and  get  to  business. 

Deprecatingly  then,  but  without  unnecessary  phrases,  he 
asked  Churchill  if  it  was  true  that  the  lady  he  had  brought 
among  them  as  his  wife  was  not  in  fact  his  wife  for  the 
strongest  of  all  reasons,  because  she  was  the  wife  of  some- 
body else. 

"Yes,"  said  Edward,  "that  is  true,  in  the  sense  that  you 
attach  to  your  question.  The  bond  between  us  has  not  been 
ratified  by  law.  It  is  none  the  less  indissoluble." 

"Well  then,  that  being  so,  we  feel  that  we  have  no  alter- 
native but  to  ask  you  to  vacate  your  appointment." 


350  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

"No  doubt,"  said  Edward,  "y°u  are  right  from  your  point 
of  view.  Please  consider  the  appointment  vacated." 

Mr.  Edrick  seemed  to  be  relieved. 

"You  see  our  difficulty.  We  make  no  reproaches.  We 
very  much  regret  the  unfortunate  circumstances  of  the 
situation,  and  we  understand  that,  as  you  were  placed,  it  was 
not  easy  for  you  to  explain  them  to  us;  but  you  would 
perhaps  have  understood — had  you  thought  of  it — that  our 
reception  of  the  lady  we  supposed  to  be  Mrs.  Churchill  must 
have  been  different — and  that  it  was  not  fair  to  leave  us 
under  a  misapprehension." 

"No,  from  your  point  of  view  it  was  not  fair." 

"You  do  see  that  now,"  and  Mr.  Edrick  looked  still  more 
relieved.  "I  put  it  to  you  as  a  man  of  the  world " 

"I  am  not  a  man  of  the  world,"  said  Edward;  "but  I 
think  no  more  need  be  said.  You  wish  us  to  go.  We  will  go 
without  delay."  He  had  risen  to  his  feet,  and  he  bowed 
gravely.  "On  behalf  of  both  of  us  I  beg  to  thank  you  all 
for  much  kindness,  and  I  am  sorry  if  some  of  it  has  been 
given  to  us  by  mistake." 

But  then  Allan  Gates  interposed  hotly.  He  said  that  the 
point  of  view  of  the  family  was  not  a  Christian  point  of 
view ;  that  if  his  friend  was  not  a  man  of  the  world,  he  was 
something  far  better ;  that  he  and  the  lady  who  was  his  wife 
in  everything  but  name  had  led  the  most  admirable  life  that 
had  ever  been  seen  in  Lips  ford.  All  married  couples  might 
take  it  as  a  model  for  imitation,  and  it  was  monstrous  and 
cruel  to  turn  them  out  as  if  in  disgrace. 

"Gently,  my  dear  Gates,  gently,"  said  Mr.  Edrick.  "There 
is  no  question  of  disgrace — certainly  not.  Your  friend 
himself  admits  our  difficulty.  Surely  you,  too,  must  see  that 
we  cannot  countenance  what  in  a  larger  community  might 
perhaps  be  of  much  less  consequence.  It  is  the  example. 
What  we  seem  to  countenance  we  must  be  held  to  approve. 
We  have  many  young  men  and  women  in  our  charge.  This 
lady  goes  about  among  the  work-girls.  They  admire  her  and 
are  naturally  subject  to  her  influence." 

"Do  you  think,"  asked  Churchill,  "she  has  done  them 
any  harm?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Gordon,  "far  from  it.  My  brother  had 
no  wish,  as  I  know,  to  give  an  impression  that  any  of  us 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  351 

doubt  that.  No,  believe  me,  Mr.  Churchill,  it  is  to  our  great 
regret  that  we  are  losing  you  both.  You  have  both  endeared 
yourselves  to  many  here." 

Then  Mrs.  Burnage  began  to  talk,  as  if  to  herself,  rather 
than  to  the  company.  "He  ought  not  to  have  brought  her 
here — not  into  this  house!"  and  she  went  on  grumblingly. 
"It  has  never  happened  before — except  once,  when  they 
brought  the  actress  who  played  Lady  Macbeth  at  Exeter. 
That  was  in  my  husband's  time." 

"No,  no,"  continued  Mr.  Gordon  hurriedly.  "Much 
regret,  I  assure  you ;  but,  as  my  brother  has  indicated,  we 
are  not  really  free  agents  in  the  matter.  We  have  responsi- 
bilities." 

"Very  well,"  said  Allan  Gates.  He,  too,  had  risen  from 
his  chair,  and  he  came  and  stood  by  his  friend's  side  near  the 
door.  "If  they  go,  I  go  with  them.  Please  accept  my 
resignation  also." 

"That,"  said  Mr.  Edrick,  "would  be  a  thousand  pities, 
Gates." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Gordon.  "Really,  Gates  you  must  not 
think  of  such  a  course." 

"Allan,"  said  Edward  Churchill  appealingly,  "don't, 
please.  For  my  sake,  don't." 

"No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Edrick,  "we  simply  won't  consider 
such  a  course." 

"Why  not?"  said  Gates,  very  warmly.  "You  have  taken 
a  course.  Then  I  take  mine.  I  refuse  to  countenance  what 
I  consider  a  dangerous  example  of  narrow-mindedness  and 
ingratitude.  I  protest  against  your  treatment  of  this  man 
and  this  woman  as  unjust,  ungrateful  and  unchristian." 

The  dark  cheeks  of  Allan  Gates  were  fiery  red  and  his 
eyes  blazed  as  he  made  his  protest.  Mr.  Edrick  was  greatly 
perturbed  by  it,  and  murmured  deprecatingly ;  Mr.  Prince 
shook  his  head  in  sign  of  solemn  negation ;  and  Mr.  Gordon 
looked  apprehensively  towards  the  big  chair  by  the  fire. 
But  old  Mrs.  Burnage  was  quite  undisturbed.  She  did  not 
seem  to  have  noticed  Allan's  rather  noisy  outburst,  and 
presently  one  heard  her  speak  to  herself  as  if  pursuing  a  long 
train  of  thought. 

"If  I  had  known,"  she  said,  "I  should  not  have  given  her 
a  nosegay." 


352  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

Outside  in  the  hall  Daphne  was  waiting  for  Churchill. 
She  seized  his  hand  and  clung  to  him.  Her  eyes  had  red 
circles  round  them,  her  long  nose  was  swollen  by  weeping, 
she  spoke  hysterically  and  breathlessly. 

"It  is  not  my  fault.  Dear  Mr.  Churchill,  do  believe  me. 
I  am  not  to  blame." 

"No,"  he  said  gently  and  kindly,  "of  course  not.  No  one 
is  to  blame  except  myself." 

"It  is  Mrs.  Prince,"  said  Daphne,  with  a  gasp.  "I  hate 
her.  I'll  never  speak  to  her  again.  We  went  to  Denmark 
House — your  wonderful  House  that  you  gave  them.  You 
gave  them  all  your  money.  And  they  love  you  there.  They 
pray  for  you.  And  I  think  there's  nobody  like  you.  I  have 
told  Edrick.  I  have  told  them  all  that  none  of  them  here  are 
fit  to  black  your  boots.  .  .  .  But  the  matron  of  the  House 
told  us  something  about  her — and  Ethel  Prince  insisted  on 
going  to  other  places,  making  further  inquiries,  until  she 
found  out  everything.  I  tried  to  prevent  her.  .  .  .  Oh,  why 
didn't  you  trust  me?  If  you  had  trusted  me,  I  should 
have  been  on  my  guard,  and  this  wouldn't  have  happened ;" 
and  she  burst  into  hysterical  sobbing. 

"Daphne,"  said  Mr.  Edrick,  coming  from  the  dining-room ; 
"Daphne.  This  is  not  very  becoming.  I  beg  of  you  to 
control  yourself ;"  and  he  and  Mr.  Prince  released  Churchill 
from  her  embrace,  and  led  her  away  still  sobbing. 

Allan  .Gates  and  Edward  Churchill,  carrying  their  un- 
opened papers,  walked  through  the  gardens  and  down  the 
park-like  slope  towards  the  river  and  the  clustered  roofs. 
The  sun  was  shining  on  the  pleasant  meadows  and  the  ter- 
raced hill;  never  had  their  valley  looked  prettier  or  more 
restful. 

And  Edward,  thinking  of  his  friend,  said  to  himself,  "He 
loves  it.  He  is  happy  here.  He  has  made  it  his  home. 
But  for  me,  he  would  stay  here  to  the  end  of  his  life." 

And,  speaking  aloud,  he  reproached  Allan  for  wishing  to 
make  a  quite  unnecessary  sacrifice,  and  urged  him  to  with- 
draw his  resignation.  The  family  would  be  quick  to  pardon 
a  few  hasty  and  ill-considered  words,  and  eager  to  retain 
his  services. 

"Allan,  please  do  it — for  my  sake.  I  should  never  forgive 
myself  for  bringing  this  trouble  upon  you." 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  353 

"I  shouldn't  forgive  myself  either.  Dear  old  boy,  I  am 
following  your  own  rule.  How  often  have  you  told  me  ? — 
self  has  its  rights.  I  am  doing  it  for  my  own  sake.  Besides, 
I  had  to  make  my  protest — to  make  it  as  strong  as  I  could,  so 
that  all  might  understand  it." 

"But,  Allan,  did  you  believe  all  that  you  said  to  them? 
Did  you  really  think  that  they  were  acting  so  improperly?" 

"Of  course  I  did.  ...  Oh,  I  don't  know."  And  for  a 
moment  he  had  his  expression  of  childlike  ruefulness.  "1 
can't  analyse  too  closely.  They  made  me  very  angry.  Don't 
let's  speak  of  it  again.  Let  us  think  of  what  we  are  all  to 
do." 

Indeed  the  outlook,  so  far  as  Lilian  and  Edward  were 
concerned,  could  not  be  considered  as  cheerful.  They  had 
lost  their  job.  They  were  out  of  work  and  almost  penniless. 

"I  think,"  Allan  went  on,  "what  we  had  better  do  is  to 
go  first  of  all  to  Danesborough.  I  am  sure  they'll  take  me 
on  again  there.  There  is  always  room  there  for  another 
curate.  We  shall  have  plenty  of  time  there  to  look  round, 
and  see  what  is  best  for  all  of  us."  As  he  talked,  he  became 
gay  again,  snapping  his  fingers,  and  stepping  out  briskly. 
"Remember,  we  have  a  nice  little  nest  egg — the  money 
you  wouldn't  use.  We'll  use  it  now,  till  we  get  going 
again." 

"Allan,  you  speak  of  'we'  and  'us,'  when  you  ought  to 
say  'I.'  Lilian  and  I  can  fend  for  ourselves.  We  are  not 
going  to  hang  upon  you." 

"No,  you  are  not.  But  you  are  coming  with  me.  'We 
are  going  into  the  wilderness  together." 

During  the  afternoon  Edward  Churchill  once  more  at- 
tempted to  dissuade  his  friend  from  abandoning  the  happy 
valley;  but  Gates  scarcely  listened  to  these  further  argu- 
ments. He  was  busily  packing  at  his  beloved  parsonage. 
He  had  already  stripped  the  "book-room,"  and  he  moved  to 
and  fro  in  the  midst  of  confusion,  pulling  about  boxes,  piling 
things  in  small  heaps,  talking  to  his  servant  and  talking  to 
himself  with  the  utmost  cheeriness.  "This  pile  is  to  be  burnt. 
.  That  is  a  present  for  Mr.  Madge.  He  is  coming  to 
fetch  it.  ...  My  fishing-boots!  Shall  I  ever  require  them? 
No  I  think  I  will  give  my  fishing-boots  to  old  John  Yenning. 
Yes,  for  Yenning— the  boots.  That  settles  that,"  and  he 


354 

whistled  gaily.  "What  did  you  say,  Edward  ?  Will  you  and 
Lilian  be  ready  for  the  first  train  to-morrow  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  about 
my  going!"  and  he  stopped  and  turned.  "That's  all  right. 
I  have  been  here  more  than  long  enough.  I  always  said 
so — and,  in  any  case,  I  could  not  go  on  living  here  when 
you  and  Lilian  were  gone." 

Arguments  were  without  avail,  and  Edward  Churchill 
had  not  really  expected  that  his  friend  would  yield  to  them. 
As  each  knew,  it  was  a  comradeship  that  could  not  be 
broken.  So  these  three  went  out  into  the  wilderness,  as  it 
were,  hand  in  hand. 


XLIV 

IN  those  days  the  town  of  Danesborough  was  perhaps  not 
more  than  half  its  present  size ;  but  already  its  rapid  expan- 
sion had  begun.  Allan  Gates  said  that  since  he  last  saw  it, 
a  belt  of  pretty  fields  and  copses  that  used  to  separate  the 
suburbs  of  Danesmead  and  Castle  Hill  had  been  built  over, 
and  the  district  called  Canal  Bank  had  "grown  out  of  all 
knowledge."  Here  the  new  docks  had  been  opened,  another 
canal  had  been  cut  to  the  estuary  of  the  river,  and  the  semi- 
maritime  character  of  the  neighbourhood  had  become  merged 
in  its  manufacturing  activity.  The  timber  trade  flourished 
exceedingly,  and  a  boom  had  begun  in  half-finished  wood- 
work and  builders'  materials.  The  children,  especially  the 
girls,  were  nearly  all  employed  at  the  wood-work  as  soon 
as  they  left  school.  A  large  trade  in  fish  was  also  developing 
itself,  while  the  old  trades  of  woollen  goods,  cement,  and 
carpets  more  than  held  their  own,  increasing  their  smoke- 
cloud  and  swallowing  fresh  acreage  in  a  most  satisfactory 
manner. 

Indeed,  from  a  material  point  of  view,  Danesborough  was 
doing  well.  "With  our  population  of  over  a  quarter  of  a 
million,"  as  the  local  newspapers  used  to  say,  "with  a  system 
of  water-ways  that  connects  us  with  the  North  Sea,  with 
our  public  parks,  with  the  residential  amenities  offered  by 
wealthy  Danesmead  and  the  scarcely  less  affluent  Castle 
Hill,  Danesborough  and  its  dependencies  may  fairly  rival  and 
ere  long  challenge  supremacy  with  any  city  in  Europe."  The 
newspapers  rarely  if  ever  spoke  of  the  beautiful  Norman 
church  of  St.  Peter's  or  the  old  market  or  the  Monks'  Gate, 
but  these  medieval  curiosities  had  always  been  there  in  the 
middle  of  the  town,  and  modern  generations  could  only  claim 
to  have  made  them  look  foolish  if  compared  with  the  iron 
and  plateglass  castles  that  now  surrounded  and  dwarfed 
them.  What  the  newspapers  talked  of  most  of  all,  what 
formed  a  topic  of  general  conversation  and  excluded  all  such 
subjects  as  art,  literature,  or  religion,  was  the  Train  Service. 

355 


356  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

Danesborough  wanted  more  and  faster  trains.  It  made 
people's  blood  boil  when  they  heard  of  new  railway  facilities 
for  Leeds  and  Liverpool,  or  of  wonderful  non-stop  runs  into 
the  sleepy  West  of  England.  But  for  the  vis  inertia  and 
selfish  greed  of  two  railway  boards,  the  progress  of  this 
glorious  city  might  have  been  even  greater. 

From  another  point  of  view,  it  was  a  place  without  a  soul. 
The  well-to-do  had  hearts  of  stone;  the  rich  were  brutally 
bumptious ;  the  Press,  the  Municipality,  all  the  public  men, 
were  ridiculously,  vaingloriously  self-satisfied.  Every  class 
down  to  the  humblest  work-people  earned  plenty  of  money, 
and  spent  their  money  in  eating  too  much  and  drinking  too 
much.  At  night  drunkards  made  the  streets  horrible.  By 
day  the  most  respectable  people  drank  more  than  was  good 
for  them ;  business  men  completed  no  piece  of  business  with- 
out wetting  the  bargain ;  their  wives  at  home  in  fine  villas 
soaked  through  the  empty  hours ;  the  crowd  gathering  for 
its  professional  football  match,  rabbit  coursing,  or  whippet 
racing,  flushed  and  heated  itself  at  a  thousand  taverns  before 
the  sport  began.  Whole  roads  smelt  of  whisky,  and  even 
little  children  knew,  its  taste.  Prostitution  also  was  rife, 
fostered  by  the  ready  money  in  all  the  young  men's  pockets 
and  by  the  conditions  of  the  workshops  where  the  young 
girls  were  employed.  These  were  regular  recruiting  places 
for  the  army  of  the  fallen,  and  shop-girls  led  astray  by  their 
employers,  servants  seduced  by  the  sons  of  the  house,  young 
women  too  lazy  to  work,  helped  to  swell  its  ranks. 

To  Edward  Churchill  the  place  seemed  uglier  far  than  the 
East  End  of  London.  There  people  were  miserably  poor, 
and  yet  they  helped  one  another,  were  kind  to  one  another. 
Here  they  were  prosperous,  but  they  gave  no  help,  they 
showed  no  kindness.  They  enjoyed  other  people's  misfor- 
tunes ;  accidents  to  others  made  them  laugh ;  if  a  horse  fell 
or  a  cart  came  to  grief,  men  passing  on  their  way  to  work 
would  not  lend  a  hand.  "Ay,  lad,  sit  on  th'  beast's  head 
as  long  as  ye  like,  but  that  wunna  mend  matters,"  and  they 
laughed  and  went  on.  Nothing  for  nothing  was  their  motto. 
They  were  cold  and  dour  and  greedy.  Wives  extracted 
coin  from  trousers  pockets  while  their  husbands  slept,  and 
fathers  thrashed  their  grown-up  daughters  with  a  strap  for 
withholding  their  wages  from  the  family  purse.  "Ay,  lassie, 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  357 

ye  ma  rub  and  rub,  but  ye  wun't  rub  tha'at  oot  in  a  hurry." 
The  only  active  work  of  mercy  that  Churchill  met  with  was 
a  small  organisation  for  rescuing  the  fallen.  This  was  called 
the  Sisterhood  of  St.  Mildred,  and  the  sisters  were  ladies 
of  means  who  had  never  received  any  monetary  aid  from  the 
town  in  the  good  work  that  they  were  doing.  Churchill, 
made  known  to  these  ladies  by  Gates,  recognised  them  as  a 
touch  of  light  on  a  very  dark  background.  Nearly  all  else 
struck  him  as  abomination  and  desolation. 

But  then  Edward  Churchill  was  a  failure  in  Danesborough. 
Gates,  who  had  been  almost  immediately  given  work  as  an 
assistant  curate  at  St.  Peter's,  not  only  supported  his  two 
friends  for  a  little  while,  but  used  every  effort  to  provide 
them  with  good  employment.  Many  people  remembered 
him;  and  by  his  influence  Edward  obtained  his  first  job,  an 
engagement  on  the  editorial  staff  of  The  Daily  Courier. 

Mr.  Milton  Kirk,  the  editor,  was  a  marvellously  vain- 
glorious little  man.  Everything  about  himself,  his  past,  and 
his  future,  was  for  him  full  of  interest  and  emotional  ex- 
citement, and  he  would  talk  on  such  matters  with  astounding 
volubility. 

"Big  as  The  Courier  akchually  is,"  he  told  Churchill,  "it 
is  not  big  enough  for  me.  It's  merely  a  stepping-stone.  I've 
been  in  America.  I  can  see  what  the  power  of  the  Press  is 
going  to  be  in  another  twenty  years.  The  pen  is  mightier 
than  the  sword.  The  world  is  mine  oyster  and  I  will  open 
it,"  and  he  flourished  a  stylographic  pen  that  he  had  taken 
from  his  waistcoat  pocket,  as  though  it  were  the  actual  in- 
strument with  which  he  intended  to  open  the  oyster,  and 
then  handed  it  to  his  secretary.  "Refill,  Miss  Jenkins,  if  you 
please.  Mr.  Churchill,  I  have  made  myself  what  I  am.  I 
shall  make  myself  what  I  mean  to  be.  You,  Mr.  Gates  in- 
forms me,  are  a  man  of  the  highest  university  education.  I 
have  had  no  such  advantages.  My  education  was  neglected ;" 
and,  as  if  to  prove  the  truth  of  the  assertion,  he  omitted  one 
or  two  aspirates.  "That  neglect,  'owever,  'as  been  made 
good  by  myself." 

Miss  Jenkins,  the  lady  secretary,  admired  him  more  than 
anything  on  earth.  She  had  a  table  all  to  herself,  and  he 
threw  her  words  and  tossed  her  bits  of  paper,  or  beckoned 
her  to  his  side  from  time  to  time ;  and  all  of  it  she  enjoyed 


358  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

immensely.  Her  one  desire  was  to  lighten  the  vast  burden 
that  the  editor  carried  on  his  small  shoulders.  Her  haunt- 
ing fear  was  that  he  might  break  down  under  the  strain. 

"Your  note-book,  if  you  please,  Miss  Jenkins;"  and  he 
would  hurriedly  dictate.  "  'Mr.  Milton  Kirk  directs  me  to 
say  he  is  far  too  busy  a  man  to  comply  with  your  request. 
.  .  .'  Now,  Miss  Jenkins,  telephone,  please.  Ring  up  Sir 
Joseph  Bence  and  say  I  will  be  with  him  at  the  club  at  4 
p.  M.  precisely.  .  .  .  Make  a  note,  please,  to  remind  me 
to  get  my  hair  cut  before  the  Masonic  Meeting  on  the 
15th.  .  .  ." 

All  the  office  furniture  had  been  made  in  America ;  every- 
thing in  the  room  was  contrived  to  expedite  the  rush  of 
business  and  avoid  the  slightest  waste  of  time,  and  yet  it 
seemed  that  time  was  wasted  all  day  long.  The  editor  talked 
so  much,  stayed  away  for  such  a  lengthy  luncheon,  ran  out 
so  frequently  for  an  important  appointment  or  a  whisky- 
and-soda,  and  grew  so  excited  towards  night,  that  it  ap- 
peared wonderful  that  the  paper  ever  got  put  to  bed  at  all. 
The  editor's  own  leading  article  was  always  late;  but  for- 
tunately, as  he  said  himself,  Mr.  Kirk  could  work  at  high 
pressure.  At  the  very  last  possible  moment  he  began  to 
prance  about  the  room  in  the  throes  of  inspiration ;  then  he 
would  dash  out  for  one  more  drink,  while  poor  Miss  Jenkins 
sat  throbbing  and  trembling ;  and  then  finally  he  would  give 
off  his  column  at  white  heat. 

"The  Train  Service!  Miss  Jenkins,  I'll  tickle  them  up 
about  the  train  service  again.  Yes.  Begin.  .  .  .  'We 
have  never  'esitated  to  animadvert  on  supineness  and  inepti- 
tude, when  displayed  in  high  places.  .  .  .'" 

He  told  Churchill  to  try  his  hand  on  some  articles  de- 
scriptive of  Danesborough  itself.  "Go  about  with  open  eyes, 
and  record,  record  what  you  see.  Use  your  imagination, 
draw  upon  your  education,  and  give  us  word-pictures — 
clear-cut,  salient,  snappy.  As  a  stranger  much  will  strike 
you  that  to  others  has  become  mere  'abitude.  See  what  you 
can  make  of  it — and  remember,  akchuality.  Akchuality  is 
the  keynote  of  successful  journalism — yes,  and  of  all  litera- 
ture. Look  at  Rudyard  Kipling.  What  does  he  owe  his 
success  to?" 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  359 

Miss  Jenkins  stirred  uneasily,  and  ventured  to  whisper  to 
the  great  man. 

"What  say?  The  name!  Yes,  yes,  that's  another  theory 
of  mine,  Churchill.  A  name  of  the  right  sort — a  name  of  the 
right  sort — a  name  not  too  easy  to  remember,  but  one  that 
sticks  when  you've  learnt  it — is  half  the  battle.  Rudyard 
Kipling!  People  couldn't  get  the  hang  of  it  at  first.  But 
they've  got  it  now.  Rider  Haggard,  Hall  Caine — same 
thing.  Take  my  own  case.  Milton  Kirk.  Not  much  in 
Kirk,  but  Milton  Kirk's  all  right,  eh?  Danesborough  has 
learnt  it,  and  I'll  stamp  it  on  England  before  I've  done." 

But  Mr.  Kirk,  although  conceited,  was  not  without  some 
kindly  attributes.  He  seemed  to  have  taken  quite  a  liking 
for  Churchill,  and  to  be  genuinely  sorry  that  the  descriptive 
articles  were  unsuccessful.  He  published  three  of  them,  and 
then  was  forced  to  stop  the  series.  The  fourth  article  was 
already  in  type,  but  he  could  not  pass  it.  He  told  Churchill 
it  was  too  vague  and  misty,  all  up  in  the  clouds,  and  without 
a  trace  of  snap. 

"See  what  I  mean?"  And  he  regretfully  flourished  his 
stylographic  pen  above  the  condemned  proof.  "Where's  the 
akchuality?  What's  it  all  about?  I  ask  myself:  Is  this 
socialism?  Is  it  Walt  Whitman  or  Ruskin  or  'Erbert 
Spencer?  What  is  it?  It's  elegant  English,  I  admit;  but  I 
read  and  I  read,  and  I  don't  know  what  you're  trying  to  say. 
In  one  way  it  almost  reads  like  a  criticism  of  the  Corpora- 
tion and  the  way  the  town  is  managed.  But  you  never  meant 
that,  I  suppose." 

"Well,  I  did  mean  to  hint  things  were  not  quite  perfect." 

"Where's  the  sense  of  that  ?"  said  Mr.  Kirk,  with  sudden 
irritation.  "We  don't  wash  our  dirty  linen  in  public  at 
Danesborough.  And  what's  more,  we  don't  quarrel  with  our 
bread  and  butter  either.  The  Courier  and  the  Corporation 
have  grown  up  side  by  side.  Such  an  attack — if  any  one 
understood  it — might  play  the  devil  with  our  advertisement 
columns.  A  jolly  nice  thing  you'd  let  me  in  for." 

Then,  exonerating  the  offender  on  the  score  of  ignorance, 
he  said  he  would  try  Churchill  at  book-reviewing. 

"Yes,  there's  your  chance.  See  what  you  can  make  of  it. 
Exploit  your  classical  education,  criticise  to  your  'cart's 


360  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

content.  But,  look  here,  keep  in  close  touch  with  Mr.  Hod- 
son — you  know,  the  Advertisement  Manager.  He'll  give 
you  your  line.  .  .  .  Mind  you,  this  may  lead  to  big  things. 
I've  long  thought  of  featuring  our  book  page.  If  the  Lon- 
don publishers  will  support  me  generously,  I  won't  grudge 
space,  I'll  give  them  the  fullest  attention.  There's  going  to 
be  a  new  era  in  book-advertising,  and  we  may  be  the  first  to 
open  it  out  up  here." 

But  Churchill  was  fated  to  suffer  another  check  and  post- 
ponement in  his  literary  career.  One  night  on  his  way  from 
the  newspaper  office  to  his  distant  lodgings  he  was  stopped 
near  the  first  canal  by  a  young  girl.  "Bide  a  bit,  ducky," 
said  the  girl,  and  she  invited  him  to  follow  her  towards  some 
waste  ground  near  a  timber  yard.  He  went  with  her  silently 
as  far  as  the  nearest  lamp-post,  and  then  made  her  stand  in 
the  lamplight  while  he  talked  to  her.  She  wore  a  school- 
girl jacket  and  sailor  hat  with  her  hair  tied  in  a  red  ribbon 
bow;  she  looked  a  mere  child,  certainly  not  more  than  fifteen 
years  old,  and  yet  she  was  regularly  leading  a  life  of  sin. 
When  he  asked  her  age  she  laughed,  and  said,  "That  ud  be 
telling.  Coom  and  ask  Auntie." 

But  he  made  her  tell  him  all  about  herself.     She  could 
not  remember    a  mother  or    father ;  she  was    called  Nell 
Thorpe,  but  did  not  know  if  that  was  her  real  name;  she 
and  three  other  girls  lived  in  the  lowest  part  of  Canal  Bank 
with  a  woman  who  said  she  was  her  aunt.    Her  usual  clients 
were  the  sailor  lads ;  but  Aunt  liked  her  to  fly  at  higher  game, 
and  was  less  unkind  if  she  brought  back  a  respectable  prize. 
Auntie  was  unkind.    Everybody  was  unkind ;  and  she  began 
to  cry.    Then  she  brushed  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  set  her 
hat  jauntily,  laughed,  and  took  Churchill  by  the  arm. 
"Now,"  she  said,  "are  you  cooming  home  with  me?" 
"No,"  said  Churchill,  "you  are  coming  home  with  me." 
And  he  took  her  back  to  his  lodgings,  and  handed  her  over 
to  Lilian. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  he  said.  "Lilian,  I  couldn't  leave  her, 
after  what  I  had  heard.  Look  at  her.  She  is  young  enough 
to  be  my  daughter.  She  must  stay  with  us  until  we  can  do 
something  for  her.  .  .  .  Nell,  my  wife  will  be  kind  to  you. 
Now,  what's  that  woman's  name?  I  am  going  to  her  at 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  361 

once,  to  tell  her  that  you  are  among  friends  and  that  you  are 
never  going  back  to  her." 

Not  unnaturally,  "Auntie"  took  this  communication  in 
bad  part.  Thus  outraged,  she  showed  herself  to  be  a  bold 
as  well  as  a  furious  virago.  Next  day  she  found  her  way  to 
their  lodgings  and  tried  to  recover  her  ward  by  the  hair  of 
the  head.  Then,  thwarted,  the  wretched  creature  went  to 
the  police  for  help ;  she  was  versed  in  the  law,  and  perhaps 
had  spared  no  pains  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  the  local 
constabulary. 

That  evening  the  Churchills  were  arrested.  They  spent 
the  night  in  cells,  and  next  morning  were  brought  before  the 
Borough  Bench  on  a  charge  of  abducting  and  procuring  a 
girl  for  an  immoral  purpose.  Both  were  remanded,  Edward 
Churchill  being  detained  in  custody  and  his  companion  Lilian 
Vickers  being  released  on  bail.  That  was  all  that  Allan 
Gates  could  do  for  them  then.  But  at  their  next  appearance 
before  the  magistrates,  he  brought  efficient  aid  from  the 
Sisterhood  of  St.  Mildred.  The  sisters  spoke  to  the  char- 
acter of  Churchill  and  that  of  Auntie.  They  knew  all  about 
the  street  of  brothels  in  which  the  girl  lived.  They  were 
prepared  to  take  charge  of  the  girl,  and  finish  the  work  that 
Churchill  had  begun. 

The  Bench  did  not  like  it  at  all.  It  was  a  nasty  business, 
this  washing  of  dirty  linen  in  public,  reckless  allegations 
against  the  moral  life  of  the  town  flying  about,  ladies  dressed 
up  in  uniform  and  shady  ne'er-do-wells  making  out  that 
Danesborough  wasn't  paradise — the  Bench  would  not  in 
the  circumstances  commit  for  trial,  but  it  said  to  Edward 
Churchill,  "Let  this  be  a  lesson  not  to  meddle  with  what 
doesn't  concern  you." 

The  publicity  that  was  unavoidably  attached  to  the  case 
gave  them  a  very  bad  start  in  Danesborough  society,  and 
indeed  spoiled  the  chance  of  obtaining  for  Churchill  the  kind 
of  high-class  employment  at  which  Gates  had  aimed.  Nor 
could  Lilian  hope  now  for  admission  as  teacher  of  music 
and  French  in  the  rich  houses  of  Danesmead,  or  even  the  less 
imposing  villas  of  Castle  Hill.  Perhaps  nobody  here  would 
have  cared  whether  they  were  married  or  single,  but  after 
such  scandalous  proceedings  they  must  be  considered  as 


362 

doubtful  characters  in  the  technical  sense.  Above  all,  one 
could  not  forgive  the  dirty  linen  part  of  it. 

A  person  of  this  sort  could  not  be  allowed  to  figure  as 
literary  critic  of  The  Courier.  The  directors  said  so,  and 
the  editor  was  forced  to  agree. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  to  Churchill;  "but  you  have  made 
a  pretty  mess  of  it,  haven't  you  ?  When  I  heard  what  you'd 
been  up  to,  I  thought,  of  course,  you'd  done  it  for  copy — a 
bit  of  akchuality — the  W.  T.  Stead  game  over  again.  Not, 
mind  you,  that  I'd  have  countenanced  one  word  of  it  in  The 
Courier.  But  you  had  no  such  idea?  Simply  promiscuous 
charity,  eh?" 

Yet,  loth  to  "turn  down"  Mr.  Churchill  altogether,  in 
spite  of  the  directorial  attitude,  he  offered  him  a  place  in 
the  publishing  department.  There  was,  practically,  a  vacancy 
in  the  packing-room. 

"Miss  Jenkins,  speaking-tube,  please.  My  compliments 
to  Mr.  Murtle  and  will  he  kindly  step  up.  ...  If  he 
hasn't  filled  the  place  of  that  man  Blair,  he  can  give  it  to  Mr. 
Churchill.  It'll  be  bread  and  cheese,  anyway." 

Edward  Churchill  wanted  bread  and  cheese,  for  two,  and 
he  was  glad  to  find  himself  packing  up  newspapers  and  car- 
rying them  to  carts,  since  he  might  not  use  pen  and  ink  any 
more.  But  this  job,  also,  he  could  not  long  retain. 

After  a  fortnight  or  so  he  happened  to  overhear  a  con- 
versation between  Mr.  Murtle,  the  publisher,  and  a  trouble- 
some visitor. 

"Get  out,"  said  Mr.  Murtle,  "unless  you  want  me  to  have 
you  pitched  out." 

"It  isn't  fair  play,"  said  the  visitor. 

"Fair  play  be  damned.  I  tell  you  I've  filled  your  place. 
You  didn't  expect  me  to  keep  it  open  till  doomsday." 

"I've  coom  oot  o'  th'  'orspital  sooner  than  what  they 
tould  me.  I  knaw  th'  work,  an'  a'm  ready  to  do't  as  well 
as  another." 

This  man  was  Blair,  Churchill's  predecessor.  Churchill 
went  outside  the  building  with  him,  and  learned  how  he  had 
fallen  sick  and  been  obliged  to  lay  up  for  a  bit,  counting  on 
being  reinstated  in  his  employment. 

"But  they  wanted  to  be  shoot  o'  me,"  he  said  heavily. 
"A'm  forty-five,  an'  they  knaw  ma  chest's  weak.  They  think 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  363 

you're  younger,  an'  stronger,  an'  a  better  bargain  all  ways. 
Well,  a'll  just  go  home  an'  tell  the  wife  a'm  oot." 

"Wait  a  few  minutes,"  said  Churchill. 

He  went  back  to  the  publisher's  office,  resigned  his  ap- 
pointment, and  begged  for  the  reinstatement  of  Blair. 

Mr.  Murtle  demurred,  and  unconsciously  echoed  the  work- 
man's words.  "I'm  contented  as  it  is.  You're  the  better 
man.  Besides,  I  put  you  in  to  oblige  Mr.  Kirk."  Then  he 
lost  his  temper.  "Oh,  damn.  Have  it  your  own  way. 
Draw  to-night  for  the  broken  week,  and  tell  that  fellow  to 
take  on  from  to-morrow  morning."  And  he  added  presently 
to  a  clerk,  "Good  riddance,  too.  He'd  do  us  no  credit  in  the 
long  run." 

"  'Tis  but  right,"  said  Blair  heavily,  when  Churchill  told 
him  that  he  was  re-engaged. 

Churchill's  next  job  was  in  a  cabinet-maker's  shop;  but 
here  he  had  words  and  nearly  came  to  blows  with  his  em- 
ployer, because  this  household  martinet,  after  the  good  old 
Danesborough  custom,  gave  a  cruel  taste  of  the  strap  to  his 
eldest  daughter.  Then  for  a  little  while  he  worked  as  a 
loader  of  canal  barges,  carrying  planks.  This  was  a  tempo- 
rary engagement,  and  he  kept  it  as  long  as  the  task  lasted. 
After  that  he  worked  at  a  house  agent's  office  by  day,  and 
spent  his  evenings  addressing  circular  envelopes  at  a  book- 
seller's. He  was  not  particular.  He  took  any  job  that 
offered;  but  the  jobs  all  seemed  to  be  precarious  and  the 
remuneration  was  small. 

Allan  Gates  was  powerless  to  lift  him  from  the  low  level 
to  which  he  had  dropped ;  he  himself  was  very  poorly  paid, 
and  his  hoardings  had  already  been  dissipated.  He  could 
not  offer  to  keep  his  friends  in  idleness,  even  if  they  had 
been  willing  to  accept  further  aid.  So  time  passed,  and 
Edward  Churchill  and  Lilian  suffered  what  are  called  hard- 
ships. They  knew  what  it  was  to  be  cold  for  want  of  a  fire 
and  hungry  because  of  insufficient  food.  Yet  they  were  not 
unhappy. 

At  any  moment  they  might  have  escaped  from  the  difficul- 
ties of  their  life  by  doing  one  of  two  things.  They  could 
have  gone  to  London,  where  undoubtedly  Churchill  would 
have  obtained  a  better  living  wage,  or  they  could  have 
abandoned  the  support  of  Robert  Vickers.  But  they  did  not 


364  THE  MIRROR- AND  THE  LAMP 

ever  think  of  doing  either  thing.  Allan  often  suggested  the 
first.  "You  ought  not  to  stay  here,"  he  used  to  say.  "You 
must  not  waste  yourself  for  my  sake.  It  is  an  absurdly 
quixotic  notion,  a  very  wrong  notion,  if  you  feel  bound  in 
any  way  to  me." 

But  although  so  dire  a  failure,  Edward  Churchill  did  not 
remain  quite  a  nonentity  in  Danesborough.  The  humble 
folk  with  whom  he  was  thrown  began  to  notice  him. 
Whether  he  wished  it  or  not,  he  made  his  immediate  com- 
panions think  about  him.  He  said  very  little  to  them,  but 
he  did  things  that  made  them  talk  of  him.  He  did  things 
that  force  men  to  speak  and  think,  because  they  have  been 
set  wondering. 

In  the  winter  time  floods  were  out,  covering  the  tow-paths 
and  hiding  the  canals,  and  many  accidents  occurred.  One 
day  Edward  came  back  to  his  lodgings  dripping  wet,  and 
told  Lilian  that  he  had  been  in  the  water.  He  was  ill  after 
this,  and,  while  laid  up,  he  asked  her  to  go  to  a  certain  house 
in  one  of  the  poorest  streets  and  find  out  for  him  if  the 
children  of  the  house  were  all  right.  He  seemed  anxious 
about  them,  but  did  not  explain  why.  She  went  to  the  house, 
and  there  discovered  that  he  had  rescued  three  children  from 
drowning.  The  mother  said  that  the  gentleman  would  not 
give  his  name,  but  made  her  promise  not  to  punish  the  imps 
for  the  "fecklessness,"  and  said  that  he  would  come  to  in- 
quire how  they  were  getting  on.  Lilian  told  her  the  gentle- 
man's name,  and  she  and  others  in  that  street  remembered  it. 

In  the  hot  summer-time  there  came  an  outbreak  of  small- 
pox in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  docks,  and  a  great  scare 
throughout  the  town.  The  well-to-do  were  terrified,  and  the 
train  service  was  severely  tested  by  a  number  of  prosperous 
inhabitants  who  ran  away  from  the  danger.  The  local 
authorities,  who  in  fact  had  for  years  been  asking  for  trouble 
by  not  enforcing  vaccination,  hurriedly  organised  two  hos- 
pital ships  on  the  river;  but  they  had  difficulty  in  getting 
anybody  to  help.  Churchill  enrolled  himself  at  once,  and 
served  for  two  months  on  one  of  the  hospital  ships.  This 
was  noticed  and  remembered  by  the  people  of  the  docks. 

In  the  autumn  there  was  a  row  at  some  cement  works 
about  the  unskilled  labour  men.  A  union  had  just  been 
started  for  them  and  all  but  a  few  joined.  One  of  these 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  365 

blacklegs  was  laid  for  by  a  picket  and  knocked  out  of  time. 
Churchill,  hearing  of  this  and  perhaps  recalling  an  incident 
in  his  own  history,  went  to  see  the  injured  blackleg  and  his 
wife.  "What  are  we  to  do?"  said  the  woman.  "Am  I  to 
starve  or  go  to  the  workhouse  till  ma  man  gets  fit  to  work  ?" 
Next  day  Churchill  assumed  the  character  of  a  sturdy  black- 
leg, and  was  taken  on  at  the  works.  The  men  glowered  at 
him,  looked  more  and  more  menacing,  and  in  the  dinner  hour 
of  the  second  day  they  got  round  him  at  the  bottom  of  the 
yard  and  began  to  threaten  him.  He  dodged  through  the 
circle,  got  his  back  to  a  wall,  and  faced  them.  He  told  them 
why  he  was  there.  He  was  working  for  the  man  they  had 
knocked  out.  He  would  go  on  working  there  and  taking 
him  his  pay  till  the  man  recovered ;  then  he  would  bring  the 
man  back  and  see  that  he  was  not  touched  by  them. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  are  right  or  wrong  about  your 
union,  but  I  know  you  were  cowardly  dogs  to  band  together 
six  against  one.  Show  you  are  men  and  not  dogs.  Come 
on  now,  if  you  like,  one  at  a  time,  and  I'll  fight  the  lot  of 
you." 

They  did  not  fight  him  one  at  a  time,  or  go  for  him  all 
together.  Perhaps  they  were  too  much  puzzled;  perhaps 
they  thought  him  mad;  but  they  allowed  him  to  continue 
working.  They  talked  about  him  and  wondered.  When  the 
injured  man  returned  they  did  not  molest  him.  Soon  he  and 
the  other  blacklegs  joined  the  union,  but  until  they  did  so 
they  were  permitted  to  work  in  peace.  And  when  later 
Churchill  came,  merely  as  a  visitor,  just  for  a  look-in  as  he 
passed  by,  all  the  men  seemed  to  welcome  him  as  an  old 
friend.  "Weel,  guv'nor  ?  Whaat's  oop  now  ?  Coom  to  fight 
us  or  to  teach  us  manners  ?  Aye,  we've  had  many  a  crack 
and  many  a  laugh  about  you  doing  juryman  for  old  Ben." 

Gradually  then  people  came  to  know  him,  and,  dour  as 
they  were,  many  came  to  like  him.  What  had  always  hap- 
pened wherever  he  went  was  happening  once  more.  He  was 
too  strong  an  individuality  not  to  exert  influence ;  and  when 
once  people  yielded  ever  so  little  to  his  influence,  some  among 
them  were  sure  to  yield  completely.  He  began  to  talk  to 
them.  He  told  them  to  be  kind  to  one  another.  "Why  are 
you  unkind  ?  Why  do  you  speak  harshly  to  those  you  love  ? 
Why  do  you  ask  payment  for  every  trifling  friendly  act? 


366 

Why  can't  you  do  something  for  nothing?  Why  aren't  you 
kind  to  one  another?" 

He  preached  this  doctrine  in  season  and  out  of  season. 
"Be  kind  to  one  another.  Nothing  else  matters."  Certainly 
he  gave  them  example  as  well  as  precept.  He  seemed  to  be 
trying  to  help  all  the  world ;  he  did  other  men's  work  as  well 
as  his  own ;  he  would  do  anything  for  anybody  who  by  look 
or  gesture  or  by  numb  silence  seemed  to  convey  to  him  those 
two  words,  "Help  me."  And  this  readiness  of  action,  the 
swift  response  and  the  unmeasured  effort,  could  not  be 
ignored,  must  be  pondered  on. 

A  rent  collector  of  Canal  Bank  spoke  of  him  to  Gates, 
saying,  "Your  friend's  a  rum  'un.  I've  met  his  class  before 
— sort  o'  men  who  are  always  helping  others,  but  can't  help 
themselves." 

But,  in  the  rent  collector's  sense,  he  was  not  even  trying 
to  help  himself.  He  was  letting  life  deal  with  him  from  hour 
to  hour  as  it  pleased.  He  had  given  himself  to  the  pressures 
with  which  he  was  surrounded,  and  he  was  contented  in  the 
daily  struggle  of  poverty.  He  had  no  regret  for  past  com- 
fort, no  dread  of  coming  pain ;  even  in  the  ugliness  of  Danes- 
borough  he  saw  no  evil  omens  for  the  future  of  mankind. 
In  a  rough  note  that  he  made  in  his  diary  he  jotted  down 
some  of  his  reasons  for  trust  and  hope,  together  with  his 
amended  notions  of  a  selfish  philosophy. 

"I  rely  on  the  ultimate  salvation  of  the  world,  because 
of  the  pity  and  sympathy  which  I  believe  are  now  firmly 
established  and  ever  growing  in  the  human  race.  You 
must  yield  to  them  now,  because  the  refusal  infallibly 
produces  mental  discomfort  in  yourself.  That  is  why 
everybody  who  is  happy  must  be  what  is  called  an 
altruist.  To  satisfy  the  craving  of  self  for  peace  you 
must  answer  the  calls  of  others. 

"But  the  calls  are  from  all  directions,  all  at  once, 
unceasing,  unappeasable.  Hence  there  comes  the  inner 
restlessness  and  revolt  against  an  impossible  task.  No 
man  can  answer  all  the  calls — and  the  restlessness  be- 
comes mixed  with  dread.  Can  I  never  be  at  peace? 
One  is  crushed  by  the  feeling  of  impotence.  It  is  like 
the  child's  dream  of  monstrous  impossibilities.  The 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  367 

strong  man  answering  the  calls  thinks,  perhaps,  'It  is 
as  if  I  was  turned  loose  with  a  broom  to  sweep  all  the 
rivers  into  the  sea  and  make  the  wide  world  dry.  I 
cannot  do  it,  but  I  will  show  good  faith.  I  will  begin 
to  sweep  with  all  my  strength.  I  shall  at  any  rate  gain 
the  peace  that  comes  from  great  fatigue.  When  I  can 
do  no  more,  I  will  lie  down  and  sleep  and  forget.'  Then 
he  starts  sweeping  the  first  puddle  he  meets,  and  he 
cannot  even  sweep  out  that.  He  lies  down,  but  cannot 
forget.  Even  in  sleep  he  is  tormented  by  the  first  call — 
still  unanswered.  This  is  real  and  true.  Strong  men 
die  of  this  sense  of  failure,  by  hundreds,  philanthropists, 
politicians,  social  reformers. 

"And  that  does  no  good  to  anybody. 

"One  cannot  even  satisfy  the  first  call.  When  it 
seems  small  and  one  gives  all  that  was  asked,  one  is 
still  restless  and  discontented.  One  might  have  given 
more  than  was  asked ;  then  one  would  perhaps  now 
have  been  at  peace.  This  leads  you  on  step  by  step 
to  the  giving  of  all.  Give  everything;  then  you  can 
give  no  more  and  you  will  be  at  peace. 

"But  blind  indiscriminate  kindness  is  wrong — all  the 
world  will  tell  you  so.  Wait  and  watch  for  the  de- 
serving case.  Be  sure  that  it  is  a  call  that  ought  to  be 
answered.  You  cannot.  That  would  mean  a  life  of 
torment,  a  watching  and  waiting  for  what  may  never 
come.  You  will  be  tortured  by  remorse — Have  you 
missed  the  call  ?  You  will  be  sickened  by  hope  deferred 
— Will  the  call  never  sound  ?  Don't  listen  to  the  world. 
Listen  to  the  inner  voice.  The  necessity  is  in  you,  not 
outside  you.  Self  is  the  lord  of  self.  If  you  cannot 
appease  and  satisfy  yourself,  the  praise  of  all  the  world 
will  not  satisfy  you. 

"Nor  need  you  too  closely  analyse  the  needs  of  those 
who  ask,  or  strive  to  measure  them.  If  evil  comes  of 
it,  the  evil  is  external  to  yourself.  It  cannot  harm  you. 
You  have  not  made  your  sacrifice  to  gain  praise.  You 
have  not,  in  truth,  made  it  to  give  happiness  to  others, 
but  to  win  peace  for  yourself.  That  is  your  standard 
and  your  test. 

"Now,  how  can  you  justify  yourself  for  this  upraising 


368  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

of  self  above  all  the  world?  By  the  iron  facts  of  life. 
You  are  lodged  in  the  cruel  self -prison,  and  you  cannot 
escape  from  it.  You  look  through  prison  bars  and  see, 
vaguely,  moving  men  who  seem  to  be  free,  but  them- 
selves are  caged.  No  man  can  enter  your  cell  and  share 
your  confinement.  You  cannot  sit  behind  the  bars  of 
a  comrade's  prison.  Surely,  then,  each  is  justified  in 
dealing  with  his  own  cell  as  he  pleases.  Who  else 
can  be  the  worse  or  the  better?  Who  can  know,  who 
can  question  him?  There  is  no  trap  in  the  iron  door; 
the  warders  of  life  cannot  peep  in  and  look  at  him ;  the 
governor  of  the  world-prison  can  pay  no  visits  of  in- 
spection. 

"Suppose  the  man  thinks  he  has  made  a  wonderful 
discovery.  The  secret  of  comfort  lies  in  having  a  clean, 
bare  cell.  With  infinite  toil,  with  hands  that  bleed,  he 
is  breaking  up  the  boards  that  make  his  bed,  and  pitch- 
ing them  out  through  his  narrow  window.  Prisoners 
afar  off  see  the  debris  beneath  the  wall,  call  him  mad- 
man, fool,  laugh  at  him  or  weep  for  him.  What  does  it 
matter  ?  He  cannot  pause  for  that.  But  perhaps  some 
day  other  prisoners  will  imitate  him,  follow  his  ex- 
ample; and  his  secret  will  pass  through  stone  walls, 
from  one  to  another,  until  it  is  known  to  all. 

"Indeed,  in  that  thought  lies  all  the  justification  of 
acting  for  self.  You  cannot  set  the  world  straight. 
You  cannot  act  for  any  one  else. 

"Practically,  too,  you  may  reconcile  your  conduct  to 
the  law  of  common  sense,  because  you  are  giving  the 
most  striking  testimony  of  what  you  believe  to  be  true 
wisdom.  You  are  giving  over  your  message  in  the 
strongest  way.  Do  the  thing  nearest  to  your  hand. 
Your  hand  cannot  stretch  across  the  world.  But  the 
fact  may  take  wings  and  circle  the  globe.  Those  about 
you  have  noticed  it,  stored  it  in  memory,  whether  they 
will  or  no.  The  man  who  has  cheated  you  and  been 
forgiven  by  you  cannot  forget  it.  The  fact  lives  with 
him  at  any  rate. 

"Wide  ambition  is  futile.  Ambition  drops  away 
when  you  recognise  your  impotence  and  cease  to  fight 
against  it.  Give  all — and  be  done  with  it.  Give  all — 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  369 

and  you  may  then  live  in  peace.  Never  mind  the  suffer- 
ing and  pain  that  you  cannot  alleviate.  It  will  vanish  in 
the  brighter  future  of  the  race.  What  you  feel  in  you  is 
felt  by  others.  There  is  no  going  back  now.  The  in- 
ward restlessness  will  not  fade  again  into  the  content- 
ment of  the  brutes.  You  may  fold  your  hands  and  leave 
it  all  to  the  mirror  and  the  lamp." 

This  rough  note  showed  how  largely  he  had  modified  that 
purely  rational  scheme  that  was  to  be  his  final  code,  but  he 
scarcely  knew  that  his  attitude  of  mind  had  changed  and 
was  still  changing.  He  knew  that  this  rough  and  tumble  life 
suited  him  better  than  the  quiet  and  comfort  of  Lipsford. 
Things  were  well  with  him  outwardly  as  well  as  inwardly. 
His  only  disturbing  thought  was  remorse  for  Lilian.  Yet 
here  again  he  hoped  that  all  was  well.  Their  love  burned  so 
brightly :  she  seemed  to  be  contented. 

And  truly  she  had  no  real  regrets.  She,  too,  had  yielded 
to  the  pressure  of  environment.  More  and  more  she  was 
dealing  with  the  thing  close  at  hand,  without  conjuring  up 
an  image  of  things  remote.  She  was  living  in  each  day  with- 
out thought  of  the  morrow.  That  episode  of  the  girl  Nell 
Thorpe  had  stirred  her  greatly.  How  could  one  pine  for 
creature  comforts  or  the  pretty  decorations  of  life  while 
other  women  and  girls  were  suffering  such  a  fate  as  that ! 

She  had  made  a  great  friend  of  one  of  those  good  women, 
the  sisters  of  St.  Mildred ;  and  this  Sister  Maude,  a  homely, 
sensible  person,  came  to  live  at  the  house  where  the  Church- 
ills  were  lodged.  Sister  Maude  spent  her  day  at  the  women's 
shelter,  communing  with  the  rescued,  and  at  night  took  her 
turn  at  street  duty.  Edward,  coming  home  of  an  evening, 
often  used  to  meet  her  as  she  issued  from  the  lodgings, 
dressed  in  the  uniform  of  the  Sisterhood — a  grey  cloak  and 
red  collar  and  a  round  black  cloth  cap — and  always  he  felt 
admiration  for  her  courage  and  endurance.  She  was  going 
to  encounter  insult,  scorn,  perhaps  violence;  she  was  going 
to  failure  and  disappointment,  and  fatigue ;  but  she  went  as 
cheerfully  and  gaily  as  if  to  a  feast  where  she  would  be 
caressed  by  the  flattery  of  charming  gracious  people.  He 
admired  and  respected  her. 

Then  one  night  he  met  her  coming  out  with  another  Sister. 


370  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

It  was  Lilian,  dressed  for  the  first  time  in  the  uniform.    His 

heart  melted  at  sight  of  her ;  she  seemed  to  him  so  beautiful, 

so  fragile,  so  utterly  too  dear  for  the  ugly  streets  and  their 

cruel  work. 

"Lilian,"  he  whispered,  "must  you  do  this  ?" 

"Not  if  you  tell  me  not  to,"  she  said.     "But  I  want  to 

do  it." 

He  could  not  tell  her  not  to.    But  he  followed  her  in  dread, 

watching  her  from  a  little  distance,  trembling  for  her,  loving 

her,  yearning  over  her. 


XLV 

IN  the  rescue  work  when  the  Sisters  had  caught  a  girl,  got 
her  safely  in  their  Shelter,  fed  her,  clothed  her,  and  done  all 
they  could  for  her,  they  then  summoned  Allan  Gates  to 
convert  her  to  religion. 

Gates  was  "all  out"  for  the  repentant  sinner.  His  favour- 
ite text  here  in  Danesborough  was  the  one  about  "more  joy 
in  heaven."  From  the  moment  of  his  arrival  he  had  said, 
"Now  I  must  gird  up  my  loins.  I  know  what  it  is,  and  here 
I  am  back  in  it  again;"  and  he  became  at  once  a  changed 
man.  He  was  the  active  Christian  now,  the  minister,  work- 
ing late  and  early ;  so  different  from  the  easy-going  Allan  of 
the  Happy  Valley  that  one  could  scarcely  recall  a  picture  of 
him  digging  in  a  garden  or  making  a  trout  fly  on  the  river's 
bank.  He  conducted  nearly  all  the  services  at  the  chapel-of- 
ease  at  Canal  Bank,  and  rarely  was  seen  at  the  grand  old 
church  of  St.  Peter  in  the  town.  At  Canal  Bank  there  were 
club-rooms  or  mission-rooms,  and  he  had  meetings  and 
awakening  services  for  men  and  for  women.  He  also  visited 
and  preached  at  the  prison. 

But  although  working  so  hard,  he  was  never  fussy  or 
rattled  like  Walsden;  he  kept  serene  and  unruffled  in  the 
midst  of  turmoil.  And  when  most  businesslike,  the  old 
childlike  Allan  would  show  suddenly.  He  was  very  partic- 
ular in  the  preparation  of  placards  and  leaflets  that  he  dis- 
played and  distributed  in  the  streets  near  the  mission-room — 
"Where  are  you  going?"  "Don't  take  that  step."  "Pause 
while  there  is  yet  time,"  and  so  on,  in  large  capitals.  He 
used  to  compose  these  "Startlers,"  as  he  called  them,  with 
great  care,  and  he  crowed  with  delight  when  he  thought  he 
had  made  a  good  one.  He  used  to  get  them  struck  off  at 
The  Courier  printing  works,  and  once  Edward  was  with  him 
when  he  fetched  out  the  foreman  to  talk  about  a  proof. 
"Listen !  God  is  speaking  to  you !" — but  Allan  was  not  sat- 
isfied with  the  effect ;  the  capitals  were  too  small  or  faint. 
He  said  it  was  not  arresting  enough.  The  printer,  very 

371 


372  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

sympathetic,  said,  "More  this  style,  perhaps,"  and  showed 
him  a  commercial  slip.  "OYSTERS!  OYSTERS! 
OYSTERS !" 

"The  very  thing!"  cried  Allan,  delighted.  He  saw  no 
incongruity  in  the  matter,  but  ordered  his  arresting  startler 
to  be  set  up  exactly  on  the  Oysters'  pattern,  and  went  away 
snapping  his  fingers  in  pleasure.  This  was  a  touch  of  the 
old  Allan ;  but  always  to  Edward  and  Lilian  he  was  really 
the  same.  Their  friendship  would  hold  them  together  and 
defy  all  tests,  no  matter  how  often  the  scene  might  change 
or  its  aspect  vary.  It  had  been  absurd  to  suggest  that  they 
should  leave  him. 

As  Churchill  came  to  know  more  and  more  people,  he 
often  met  Allan  in  the  houses  of  the  poor.  When  the  priest 
made  his  appearance,  this  lay  helper  gave  place  respectfully. 
Perhaps  the  two  men  lingered  talking  together  for  a  few 
minutes,  but  directly  Allan  got  to  business  Edward  with- 
drew ;  and  often,  when  he  had  gone,  the  people  of  the  house 
spoke  of  him  with  something  almost  like  affection,  and  said 
how  useful  he  had  been  to  them.  Allan  saw  how  his  power 
was  increasing,  and  made  him  exercise  it  by  lecturing  at  the 
mission-room — on  the  evils  of  drink,  the  folly  of  gambling, 
and  on  the  care  of  bodily  health.  Allan  set  him,  too,  to  talk 
to  particular  men  and  visit  their  families ;  and  he  took  help 
from  him  in  many  other  ways.  But  there  remained  always 
the  hard-and-fast  division  of  their  duties:  one  dealt  with 
the  little,  hurried  world  of  to-day ;  the  other's  province  was 
the  vast  hereafter.  Churchill  would  not  speak  of  religion, 
however  eagerly  he  might  be  questioned.  He  referred  all 
inquirers  to  Allan  Gates.  It  was  perhaps  a  queer  partner- 
ship, but  it  seemed  to  work  all  right. 

The  Churchills  had  lived  in  many  lodgings,  but  now  they 
joined  Gates  at  a  rather  better  house  at  Canal  Bank,  where 
the  three  of  them  shared  a  common  living-room.  Sister 
Maude  came  with  them ;  and  other  occupants  of  the  house 
were  a  queer  old  actor  who  gave  lessons  in  elocution,  and  a 
young  doctor  of  considerable  talent  who  had  sunk  through 
his  own  fault  to  the  humblest  kind  of  practice  among  the 
wharf-side  community.  Churchill  at  this  time  was  working 
as  a  clerk  in  a  herring  warehouse  close  by;  so  that  he  not 
only  enjoyed  the  companionship  of  Allan  at  their  evening 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  373 

meal,  but  was  readily  obtainable  in  any  brief  hour  of  leisure. 
His  Saturday  afternoons  were  usually  free,  and  three  or 
four  times  a  year  he  employed  one  of  them  in  going  to  visit 
Robert  Vickers.  It  took  an  hour  and  a  half  to  get  by  train 
to  the  place  in  Staffordshire,  and  the  journey  to  and  fro 
made  a  tedious  business — except  on  the  day  when  Allan  went 
with  him.  That  day  was  a  happy  outing  for  both  of  them. 

Vickers  counted  on  these  visits  of  Churchill,  and  he  would 
write  complainingly  if  a  visit  was  overdue.  Indeed  his 
letters  often  contained  complaint.  He  suspected  that  the 
doctors  had  lost  interest  in  his  case,  the  nurses  neglected 
him,  and  so  on.  Occasionally  he  said  he  had  something  to 
communicate  of  such  importance  that  he  could  not  put  it  on 
paper,  and  for  this  reason  he  begged  Churchill  to  come 
without  delay.  The  important  communication  always  proved 
to  be  some  little  plan  for  his  own  welfare.  He  wanted  a 
room  overlooking  the  garden  rather  than  the  park,  and  he 
wished  Churchill  to  make  the  request  for  him!  or  he  had 
read  an  advertisement  in  a  newspaper  describing  some  won- 
derful new  electric  treatment,  and  he  wished  Churchill  to 
let  him  try  it.  "Those  people  here  won't  do  anything  unless 
you  stir  them  up,"  he  would  say  querulously.  "Of  course 
this  will  be  an  extra,  and  it  will  cost  money.  But  it  may 
be  money  well  spent.  The  longer  my  illness  lasts  the  more 
it's  going  to  cost — and  I  want  to  get  well  quickly.  I  mean  to 
get  well,  if  they'll  only  let  me." 

He  scarcely  seemed  to  remember  where  the  money  came 
from,  or  to  care.  He  had  never  really  thanked  Churchill  for 
providing  it.  The  egoism  of  sickness  had  fallen  upon  him, 
and  it  became  a  monstrous  growth.  The  whole  universe 
for  him  revolved  round  his  bed,  his  sofa,  and  his  chair  in  the 
garden  verandah.  He  thought,  he  could  think,  of  nothing 
but  himself  and  his  chance  of  recovery.  But  he  was  glad 
to  see  Churchill ;  he  said  that  Churchill  always  bucked  him 
up.  "How's  Lilian?"  he  used  to  ask,  and  not  listen  to  the 
answer.  "Now,  old  chap,  you'll  be  glad  to  hear  I've  been 
feeling  much  better  since  I  last  wrote.  Yes,  old  chap,  I'm 
making  real  progress."  He  called  Churchill  "old  chap"; 
for  him,  too,  all  past  differences  were  obliterated. 

He  had  not  endeared  himself  to  the  staff  at  the  Sanato- 
rium. Affliction  had  in  no  way  softened  him.  He  rubbed 


374  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

the  doctors  the  wrong  way  by  blustering  about  scientific 
bunglers,  and  did  not  placate  them  by  adding  that  these  re- 
flections were  not  to  their  address.  When  he  had  a  nice- 
looking  nurse  his  demeanor  towards  her  was  polite  but  ob- 
jectionable ;  when  the  authorities  gave  him  in  punishment  an 
elderly  unattractive  nurse,  he  lost  his  temper  and  roundly 
cursed  her.  At  first,  too,  there  was  trouble  about  a  disrep- 
utable woman  who  used  to  come  down  from  London  to  see 
him.  Just  as  letters  from  Vickers  complained  of  the  estab- 
lishment, letters  from  the  establishment  complained  of  him. 
Churchill  was  threatened  once  that  if  this  inmate  did  not 
improve  his  manners,  he  would  be  expelled. 

"Hang  them,"  said  Vickers,  when  gently  expostulated 
with.  "Why  don't  they  set  me  on  my  legs  and  make  me 
fit  again?  Heavens  knows  I  shall  be  glad  enough  to  say 
good-bye  to  the  lot  of  them." 

The  doctors  always  told  Churchill  the  same  thing.  The 
case  was  a  success,  in  many  respects  a  great  success,  but  it 
was  idle  to  expect  that  Vickers  could  ever  be  restored  to 
health.  He  would  have  his  ups  and  downs,  as  he  was  having 
now ;  but  as  time  passed  the  "ups"  would  shrink  in  height 
and  the  "downs"  would  go  deeper,  until  with  a  final  fluc- 
tuation the  "down"  would  be  so  deep  that  he  would  never 
rise  out  of  it. 

Possessed  of  this  knowledge,  Churchill  saw  in  the  un- 
varying hopefulness  of  the  sick  man  something  so  pathetic 
that  he  found  no  difficulty  in  overlooking  any  repellent  traits. 

"It's  cursed  luck,  isn't  it,  Churchill,  to  be  laid  low  like 
this,  just  in  my  prime  ?"  And  Vickers  would  inveigh  against 
fate,  quite  in  his  old  style,  till  his  cough  stopped  him.  "That's 
nothing.  Don't  you  worry  about  that,  old  chap.  I  do  still 
cough  a  bit,  but  I  am  doing  well.  I'm  better  every  day." 

And  he  said  that  he  meant  to  go  to  the  Colonies,  and  make 
another  career.  The  old  country  was  played  out.  Australia 
or  New  Zealand  should  be  his  ticket.  There  would  be  big 
labour  troubles  out  there  before  long,  and  he  would  soon 
push  to  the  front.  "I  wonder  when  they'll  let  me  get  away." 

If  the  afternoon  was  fine  they  strolled  together  in  the 
park,  very  slowly,  and  with  pauses  to  draw  breath  wherever 
the  ground  sloped  upward.  The  slightest  effort  made  the 
patient  cough.  He  would  stand  leaning  on  his  stick  and 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  375 

holding  a  hand  to  his  side,  and  when  the  paroxysm  had 
passed  it  left  him  shaking.  Yet  at  other  times  he  did  not 
look  very  ill.  He  was  gaunt  and  thin,  and  the  thinness 
seemed  to  have  added  to  his  height,  but  like  all  the  other 
patients  he  was  sunburnt ;  and  when  he  spoke  of  the  future 
he  pulled  himself  up,  squared  his  bony  shoulders  and  as- 
sumed an  aspect  of  the  strength  that  he  was  pining  for. 

"I  am  trying  to  get  fit,  old  chap.  They  say  they  believe 
in  faith-healing  to  this  extent:  One  can  aid  or  impede  re- 
covery. Well,  I'm  not  a  coward.  I  mean  to  get  fit." 

It  was  a  warm  summer  day  when  Allan  Gates  came,  and 
they  lounged  in  the  gardens.  Allan,  wishing  to  leave  them 
alone,  went  off  with  the  matron,  a  kindly,  sensible  woman 
who  was  full  of  sympathy  and  understanding,  to  see  the 
newly-erected  chapel  and  be  shown  through  the  sanatorium 
itself. 

Vickers  pointed  at  the  chapel  with  his  stick  and  said, 
"Hang  them.  They  opened  it  before  the  plaster  was  dry, 
and  I  caught  a  rare  bad  cold  there." 

"Do  you  go  to  church  regularly?"  asked  Edward. 

"You  bet,"  said  Vickers,  and  he  laughed.  "It  isn't  obli- 
gatory. But  the  matron  and  the  rest  of  'em  are  mighty 
pious,  and  we  know  we  shall  get  paid  out  if  we  don't  go ;" 
and,  unwillingly,  Churchill  remembered  how  he  had  always 
"kept  in  with  the  Church."  He  mocked  now  at  religion,  as 
he  would  not  have  done  in  the  old  days.  "Tommy  rot,  eh  ? 
You  dropped  it  like  a  hot  potato,  didn't  you  ?" 

This  was  very  distasteful  to  Edward  Churchill. 

Gates  came  back  to  them  presently,  and  praised  everything 
that  he  had  seen.  All  the  domestic  arrangements  seemed 
perfect;  the  bedrooms  were  so  bright  and  airy;  the  library 
was  a  charming  room ;  the  smoking-room  and  lounge  were 
as  handsomely  furnished  as  anything  you  could  find  in  a 
grand  hotel  or  London  club.  And  what  a  delightful,  sym- 
pathetic woman,  that  Miss  Faulkner,  the  matron ! 

"If  you've  fallen  in  love  with  it  all,"  said  Vickers,  with 
a  smile  that  was  like  a  sneer,  "you'd  better  come  and  change 
places  with  me.  You  can  have  the  whole  bag  of  tricks — 
Miss  Faulkner  included — from  the  day  that  I  get  away." 

"I'll  certainly  come  and  see  you  again,"  said  Gates  cheerily. 
"That  is,  if  you  have  no  objection  to  receive  me." 


376  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

Vickers  said  that  he  was  prepared  to  accept  any  friend 
of  Churchill  as  a  friend  of  his  own,  and  that,  in  fact,  visitors 
of  all  kinds  were  welcome.  They  broke  the  dull  monotony 
of  life. 

"Very  well,"  said  Gates.  "Then  I  consider  that  a  bar- 
gain. I'll  run  over  at  the  first  opportunity,  without  waiting 
for  Churchill." 

Afterwards  Churchill  found  that  Gates  had  done  what  he 
proposed.  When  he  spoke  of  this  act  of  kindness,  Gates 
said  lightly :  "Dear  old  boy,  you  have  done  so  much  for  him, 
already,  that  it  would  be  a  pity  for  us  not  to  do  as  much 
more  as  possible." 

An  effect,  perhaps,  of  the  visit  of  Gates  was  a  letter  that 
came  from  Vickers.  For  the  first  time  Vickers  thanked 
Churchill  for  past  benefits. 

The  seasons  glided  by,  and,  in  spite  of  poverty,  life  was 
not  all  struggle  and  toil  at  Canal  Bank.  Their  house  was 
happy  because  of  the  love  in  it.  The  hardest-worked  people 
can  always  find  some  little  time  for  relaxation.  They  had 
merry  evenings  when  the  uniform  was  laid  aside  by  Sister 
Maude;  Christmas  dinners  when  the  doctor  and  the  actor 
shared  the  feast ;  summer  treats  when  they  all  tramped  along 
the  canal  tow-paths  to  the  river,  caught  the  little  steamboat 
for  Grove-on-Sands,  and  drank  tea  in  the  famous  tea  gardens 
at  Ferry  Port.  They  helped  one  another,  the  old  actor 
getting  Lilian  engagements  for  music  lessons,  the  doctor 
seeking  in  the  solace  of  decent  company  and  the  friendship 
of  two  clean-minded  men  something  wherewith  to  fight  the 
drug  habit  that  had  brought  him  low.  Sister  Maude  and  the 
other  Sisters  were  very  fond  of  Lilian,  and,  after  she  had 
served  her  novitiate  in  street  duty,  set  her  less  sordid  tasks ; 
they  would  look  after  her,  and  see  that  no  harm  befell  her, 
if  Edward  was  ever  called  from  her  side.  To  his  joy,  these 
good  souls  gave  her  holidays  in  the  pleasant  homes  of  their 
friends — the  hospitable,  open-hearted  friends  who  welcomed 
her  for  what  she  was,  and  did  not  mind  what  she  wasn't. 
They  respected  her  and  made  much  of  her  as  Sister  Lilian, 
and  did  not  trouble  whether  her  real  name  was  Mrs.  Church- 
ill or  Mrs.  Vickers. 

Bosworth,  the  actor,  was  a  dear  old  fellow,  rich  in  tales  of 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  377 

the  stage.  He  had  acted  with  all  the  great  stars ;  had  played 
the  King  at  a  provincial  theatre  with  Henry  Irving  as  Ham- 
let. What  old  actor  did  one  ever  meet  who  has  not  had  these 
wonderful  experiences?  But,  unlike  many  old  actors,  Mr. 
Bosworth  did  not  pretend  to  have  been  kept  out  of  London 
by  a  conspiracy  of  timorous  rivals.  When  he  came  down 
from  his  room  at  the  top  of  the  house,  he  brought  laughter 
with  him,  amusing  them  by  his  tales  of  theatrical  life,  his 
imitations  of  local  pupils,  his  strange  slang.  If  they  did  not 
send  him  upstairs  to  bed  he  would  sit  by  their  fire  half  the 
night,  talking,  talking,  talking;  and  as  farewell,  when  part- 
ing from  them  or  from  anybody  else,  he  employed  one  in- 
variable formula — "Ta,  ta.  Be  good." 

So  the  years  passed,  not  really  uneventful,  yet  showing  no 
great  outward  change.  Edward  still  preached  the  doctrine 
of  mutual  aid,  but  in  gentler  terms ;  for  already  he  had  made 
many  converts.  The  seeds  sown  on  hard  ground  blossomed 
sometimes  into  splendid  unexpected  flowers.  People  soft- 
ened at  his  contact.  Since  he  had  asked  them  to  do  so,  men 
here  and  there  had  ceased  to  drink,  had  bought  clothes  for 
their  children  instead  of  betting  on  whippet  races,  had 
worked  in  off-hours  for  distressed  neighbours  without  fee  or 
reward.  There  was  more  kindness  in  the  town  of  Danes- 
borough  because  of  Edward  Churchill. 


XLVI 

THEN  one  winter,  of  a  sudden,  he  rose  from  his  obscurity 
to  the  topmost  surface  of  the  town's  life.  It  was  said  of 
him  in  the  highest  circles  that  he  had  averted  the  threatened 
calamity  of  a  general  strike.  The  trouble  began  at  the 
cement  works  where  he  had  first  become  known  as  a  black- 
leg, and  the  employers  asked  him  to  use  his  influence  with 
the  men  and  prevent  them  from  following  the  pernicious 
advice  of  professional  agitators.  "Tell  the  men,"  said  the 
employers,  "that  nothing  will  make  us  give  in.  If  they 
force  us  to  fight,  it  shall  be  to  the  bitter  end.  Their  demand 
is  unjust." 

"But  is  it?"  asked  Churchill.  "They  are  weaker  than 
you.  Justice  is  not  always  with  the  strong." 

Then  he  talked  to  the  men,  persuading  them  that  their 
grievance  was  not  worth  a  quarrel;  that  except  when  one 
fights  in  the  cause  of  other  people,  peace  is  always  better 
than  war;  that  here  they  would  be  fighting  for  selfish  and 
short-sighted  ends.  "Ask  your  wives,"  he  told  them;  "ask 
your  children ;  ask  your  own  hearts.  Lock  the  gates  at  din- 
ner-time, when  these  salaried  orators  come  to  talk  to  you  as 
if  you  belonged  to  them  and  hadn't  any  minds  of  your  own. 
Tell  them  this  is  a  family  question  and  you'll  decide  it  among 
yourselves,  in  your  own  way,  at  your  own  time,  and  without 
any  assistance  from  them.  Go  on  with  your  work,  and  think 
it  over.  You  were  contented  enough  until  the  notion  of  this 
row  got  possession  of  you,  and  you  have  known  no  comfort 
since.  Nothing  matters,  except  being  comfortable  in  your- 
selves." 

The  men  gave  in.  At  these  works  there  was  no  strike, 
and  the  employers  were  so  pleased  that  they  voluntarily 
offered  a  compromise  in  which  they  practically  conceded  the 
point  for  which  they  had  been  ready  to  fight  to  the  death. 

But  meanwhile  the  trouble  had  spread  far  and  wide,  and 
Churchill  went  here  and  there  saying  much  the  same  thing  to 
all.  Employers  and  employed  must  now  follow  the  example 

378 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  379 

set  by  the  cement  works;  it  had  been  decided  there  that 
peace  was  better  than  war;  it  had  been  shown  that  there 
was  no  true  reason  for  strife.  The  agitators  could  not  stand 
up  against  him ;  but  for  his  intervention,  more  than  one  of 
them  would  have  been  given  a  cold  bath  in  the  canal;  the 
men  made  him  their  leader  and  followed  him  like  sheep; 
the  employers  listened  to  him,  consulted  him,  and  thanked 
him  for  his  good  offices.  The  Courier  and  other  newspapers 
sang  his  praises  when  all  was  happily  settled.  Great  mag- 
nates desired  his  further  acquaintance,  and  said  they  would 
be  glad  to  promote  his  views  and  assist  in  his  advancement. 

If  now  he  had  grasped  at  opportunity,  he  might  have 
lifted  himself  permanently  in  Danesborough  society.  He 
failed  to  do  so.  The  searchlights  of  local  fame  had  fallen 
upon  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  was  again  in  the  dark ; 
he  was  spoken  of  no  more  in  public  print ;  the  world  rolled 
on,  and  left  him  standing  still. 

But  the  incident  brought  him  into  touch  again  with  a 
person  that  he  had  already  met  on  one  or  two  occasions. 
This  was  a  Mr.  Raymond,  a  childless  widower  of  consider- 
able means,  who  lived  very  simply  in  one  of  the  older  houses 
on  the  outskirts  of  Danesmead.  Gates,  who  had  known  him 
in  the  past,  said  that  he  gave  largely  in  charity  and  interested 
himself  in  many  semi-political,  semi-humanitarian  schemes, 
such  as  the  improvement  of  the  prison  system,  the  housing 
of  the  poor,  State  pensions  for  the  labouring  classes,  and  so 
on.  Gates  also  said  that  he  was  a  devout  Churchman.  As 
Churchill  found,  other  interests  of  his  life  were  literature 
and  philosophy ;  and  he  amused  himself  with  such  harmless 
hobbies  as  the  collecting  of  old  coins,  old  prints,  and  en- 
gravings. 

He  seemed  to  be  extraordinarily  different  from  all  other 
citizens  of  Danesborough ;  so  well-bred,  so  large-minded,  so 
full  of  strong  intellectual  life ;  and  he  had,  moreover,  a  great 
charm  of  manner,  with  a  contagious  laugh  which  at  once 
set  one  at  one's  ease,  and  never  jarred,  even  when  its  musi- 
cal peal  broke  in  unexpectedly  on  a  discussion  of  serious 
things.  He  engaged  Churchill  to  arrange  and  catalogue  his 
library  for  him,  and  during  this  task  they  had  many  con- 
versations. It  was  an  immense  pleasure  to  talk  freely  with 
such  a  man,  after  so  long  a  deprivation  from  any  intercourse 


380  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

of  the  kind,  and  Edward  Churchill  talked  to  him  with  the 
utmost  freedom  of  matters  that  he  would  not  have  discussed 
with  anybody  else — even  of  religion. 

For,  just  as  Mr.  Raymond  was  different  from  his  fellow 
townsman,  he  was  a  Christian  believer  very  different  from 
the  ordinary  ruck  of  Church-people.  Well  educated,  well 
read,  accustomed  to  the  examination  of  the  varied  thoughts 
of  men  in  all  ages  and  under  all  civilisations,  he  would 
debate  the  tenets  of  Christianity  with  as  much  ease  and  no 
more  heat  than  he  applied  to  a  critical  appreciation  of  the 
Platonic  Dialogues  or  one  of  Shakespeare's  plays.  Doubt- 
less, as  Gates  said,  he  was  firm  not  only  in  his  faith,  but  in 
his  creed  also;  yet  he  showed  not  a  trace  of  the  passionate 
desire  to  defend  the  details  of  one  and  the  other  that,  in  a 
larger  or  smaller  degree,  one  almost  always  encounters  in 
the  faithful  members  of  every  Church.  He  supported  his 
opinions  on  all  subjects  with  argument,  but  he  put  it  for- 
ward in  the  most  good-humoured,  impersonal  manner. 

Raymond,  for  his  part,  was  interested  by  Churchill,  and 
while  talking  of  so  many  other  things  he  gradually  led  him 
to  talk  of  himself.  He  seemed  intuitively  to  understand 
much  of  his  character  and  his  natural  tastes.  He  said  that 
Churchill  ought  to  be  more  than  a  reader  of  books,  he  ought 
to  be  a  writer  of  books ;  and  Churchill,  confessing  to  ancient 
cravings  towards  pen  and  ink,  told  him  of  his  early  tentative 
efforts  and  his  more  recent  literary  catastrophe  at  The 
Courier.  Raymond  laughed  heartily  over  his  failure  to  reach 
Mr.  Milton  Kirk's  high  standards,  and  said  he  would  give 
him  an  introduction  to  the  editor  of  a  well-known  London 
weekly,  who  would  be  much  easier  to  please,  if  he  ever  cared 
to  try  his  hand  again. 

The  two  principal  rooms  of  the  house — what  should  have 
been  the  drawing-room  and  dining-room — had  been  given 
over  by  Mr.  Raymond  to  his  books,  and  from  one  of  the 
rooms  there  was  quite  a  pleasant  view  across  a  foreground 
of  roof-tops  and  smoking  chimneys  to  the  distant  river  and 
the  low  hills  that  guarded  its  mouth.  On  sunny  days,  when 
the  wind  was  blowing  across  the  water,  the  smoke  clouds 
rolled  away,  and  then  one  had  sudden  glimpses  of  full-rigged 
ships,  brown-sailed  fishing  boats,  and  strings  of  barges 
drawn  by  red-funnelled  tugs,  all  bright  and  gay  beneath  an 


Baldwin 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  381 

unstained  patch  of  clear  blue  sky.  Raymond  used  to  come 
into  the  room  of  an  afternoon,  sit  in  the  window,  and  watch 
Churchill  at  his  work. 

''What  are  you  up  to  now?  .  .  .  Margetson,  Bowles, 
rin !  Psychology,  eh  ?  I  always  read  psychology  with 
great  pleasure,  but  I  have  not  trained  myself  in  its  terms." 

"Nor  I,  either,"  said  Churchill. 

"They're  always  changing,  too.  That's  the  worst  of  these 
scientific  people — each  one  of  them  invents  his  own  vocabu- 
lary;" and  Raymond  laughed.  "The  cleverer  he  is,  the 
more  words  he  makes  you  learn  before  you  can  understand 
him." 

A  staid  old  maidservant  brought  in  tea,  and  remained 
motionless  with  her  tray,  looking  severely  reproachful  while 
the  two  men  cleared  a  table  of  its  books. 

"Strawberry  jam  again,"  said  Raymond,  "and  no  hot 
cakes.  Eliza,  do  tell  Mrs.  Jones  to  give  us  hot  cakes  until 
June  the  first.  And  try  to  get  us  some  gooseberry  jam — any 
jam  except  strawberry." 

"I  thought  you  were  fond  of  strawberry  jam,"  said  Eliza 
severely. 

"So  I  was,  Eliza ;  but  I  am  perhaps  fickle,  and  Mrs.  Jones 
has  cured  me  of  my  love  by  giving  such  full  occasion  for 
its  gratification.  We  were  just  talking  of  the  human  mind, 
Eliza.  It  has  its  ebbs  and  flows,  its  spontaneous  impulses, 
and  its  automatic  reactions,"  and  he  began  to  laugh. 

Eliza's  solemnity  relaxed,  and  she  laughed  too — because 
her  master  was  laughing,  not  because  she  saw  any  reason  for 
laughter. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "you  can  have  what  jam  you  prefer, 
if  you  name  it." 

"Very  well,  let  it  be  gooseberry  to-morrow,  and  don't 
forget  the  cakes." 

Then  they  drank  their  tea,  and  smoked,  and  went  on 
talking.  It  was  at  the  tea  table,  with  the  soft  April  sunlight 
on  the  grey  rooms  and  a  gentle  air  floating  in  from  the  open 
window,  that  Churchill,  replying  to  his  host's  questions, 
frankly  exposed  his  views  about  Christianity. 

"But,  Churchill,  if  you  give  up  all  that  you  call  the  mys- 
tery and  the  machinery,  what  is  the  world  to  take  in  ex- 
change ?" 


382  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

"Nothing  is  needed."  And  Churchill  spoke  of  the  natural 
attributes  of  pity  and  sympathy. 

"But  what  is  to  guide  them?" 

"They  need  no  guide.  They  can  guide  themselves,  by  the 
light  of  love." 

"You  say  these  emotions  are  implanted.  But  in  man's 
nature  other  emotions  are  implanted.  For  instance,  rever- 
ence, the  religious  feeling  itself — and  faith." 

"The  religious  feeling  I  believe  to  be  inherited  supersti- 
tion. It  is  not  implanted;  it  was  born  of  ignorance  and 
fear." 

"And  faith?  The  new  phychologists  trace  the  quality  of 
faith  in  the  working  of  the  mind  in  regard  to  all  subjects." 

And  Raymond  continued  to  question  his  guest  with 
interest. 

"You  are  not  a  materialist  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  far  from  it." 

"You  believe  that  spiritual  forces  have  had  their  part  in 
making  and  ruling  the  universe  ?" 

"Yes,  I  believe  they  rule  it,  and  must  always  rule  it." 

"And  thought  itself?  Do  you  hold  thought  as  explicable 
essentially  at  some  future  time,  if  not  now ;  or  do  you  accept 
it  as  a  mystery  ?" 

"I  hold  it  as  essentially  inexplicable." 

"And  do  you  more  or  less  adopt  the  notion  of  a  universal 
mind  from  which  this  supply  of  mind-stuff  is  issued  and  to 
which  it  will  return  ?" 

"Not  as  issuing  from  God." 

"Nor  from  a  single  ruling  mind  ?" 

"No." 

"Is  it  something  that  pervades  the  whole  universe  ?" 

"I  do  not  know.  I  cannot  think  of  it  logically  further 
back  than  its  manifestation  as  I  see  it." 

"What  are  you  looking  for?  Matches?  Here  they  are. 
...  Go  on.  Don't  let  me  interrupt  you." 

Churchill  took  the  box  of  matches,  but  did  not  light  his 
pipe. 

"I  accept,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "the  dual  mystery  of 
the  two  universes  in  which  I  find  myself — the  material, 
tangible  universe  and  the  spiritual,  impalpable  universe.  I 
can  conceive  of  their  both  being  governed  by  similar  laws ; 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  383 

as,  for  instance,  conservation  of  energy  and  indestructibility 
of  components — although  in  both  cases  that  must  be  a  purely 
human  conception  and  probably  quite  valueless  as  an  absolute 
truth ;  thus,  I  can  imagine  that  at  death  all  that  remains  of 
spirit  in  the  man  returns  to  or  is  absorbed  by  the  universal 
reservoir  of  spirit,  but  I  cannot  conceive  of  its  reconstituting 
itself  again  into  a  manifestation  similar  to  what  it  has  been. 
Any  more  than  on  the  material  side  could  I  believe  that  the 
gases  given  off  by  a  decaying  potato  will  collect  themselves 
and  make  another  similar  potato.  I  am  ready,  if  necessary, 
to  believe  that  what  we  call  spirit  and  matter  are  but  two 
aspects  of  the  same  phenomenon — not  that  it  gives  me  the 
smallest  notion  of  what  that  means." 

Raymond  laughed.  "No,  that's  too  metaphysical  alto- 
gether. Let's  come  down  again.  The  air  is  getting  too  rare- 
fied. I  always  think  of  the  old  definition  of  metaphysics — 
a  blind  man  in  a  dark  room  hunting  for  a  black  hat  that  isn't 
there.  That's  how  I  saw  it  quoted  the  other  day;  but 
I  thought  it  was  a  black  cat — not  a  black  hat.  Which  is 
right?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Churchill.  "But  hat  is  better.  Cat  is 
too  objective — it  suggests  substantial  action,  movement, 
energy,"  and  he  lit  his  pipe  and  puffed  at  it. 

"What  you  most  forcibly  reject,"  said  Raymond,  "is  re- 
vealed religion?" 

"Yes,  exactly ;  in  every  form.  I  do  not  believe  that  God 
exists  in  any  sense  that  is  commonly  attached  to  the  idea, 
or  that  there  has  ever  been  the  slightest  communion  or  point 
of  contact  between  this  God  and  man.  I  cannot  see  that 
there  is  the  slightest  valid  evidence  for  such  a  belief.  This 
may  be  my  misfortune;  but  I  have  not  felt  any  want  or 
unsatisfied  craving  because  of  it." 

"You  have  not  been  conscious  of  anything  missing  to 
complete  and  harmonise  your  relations  with  surrounding 
nature  ?" 

"No.  I  should  explain  that  I  used  to  believe  implicitly  in 
the  Christian  doctrine.  I  had  never  questioned  it.  But  as 
soon  as  I  did  question  it,  it  tumbled  to  pieces  at  once." 

"That  is  curious.  What  I  have  always  understood  as 
more  usual  is  for  men  to  lose  their  religious  belief  little  by 
little — from  neglect,  the  hurry  of  life,  preoccupation  by 


384  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

practical  interests;  so  that  they  scarcely  realize  it  is  gone 
till  they  think  of  it." 

"Yes.  I  am  not  sure  if  that  was  not  my  own  case.  Yes, 
it  was  going  for  some  time.  It  had  gone  really  before  I 
questioned  it." 

"Or  if  it  goes  suddenly,  it  is  usually  because  of  some 
emotional  storm." 

"And  that  perhaps  was  my  case  also." 

"But  to  return  to  what  you  said  about  the  implanted  im- 
pulses towards  good — they  do  make  for  good  ?" 

"Yes,  we  are  always  ascending  towards  higher  things." 
And  Churchill  explained  his  theory  of  self-seeking  altruism. 

Raymond,  like  Gates,  smiled  at  this  idea  of  selfishness. 
"Surely,"  he  said,  "something  more  definite  is  required  than 
that?  You  leave  it  to  each  man  to  build  his  ideal  for  him- 
self. But  how  many  men  can  do  that  ?" 

"The  example  of  others  will  lead  them,"  said  Churchill. 
"If  men  will  follow  the  natural  dictates  of  their  hearts,  they 
will  reach  the  ideal." 

Then  Raymond  put  to  him  the  question  of  whether  for 
most  people  there  is  not  wisdom  in  accepting  God,  if  only 
as  a  working  hypothesis.  "According  to  you,  we  cannot 
know  the  truth.  But  if  we  find  that  the  sustaining  force 
derived  from  an  assurance  of  immortality,  and  the  complete 
satisfaction  of  the  religious  or  mystical  craving,  can  be 
attained  by  belief  in  God,  should  we  not  logically  use  the 
hypothesis  until  we  can  find  something  better?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Churchill,  after  a  moment's  pause;  "for 
many  people  a  voluntary  acceptance  of  the  hypothesis  might 
undoubtedly  be  useful — just  as  other  self-deceptions  may 
have  their  uses." 

"That  is  characteristic.  I  have  heard  it  so  often  from 
liberal-minded  men  like  yourself,  who  are  naturally  full  of 
the  sensation  of  their  own  intellectual  power,  and  who  say 
religion  is  very  good  for  everybody  else,  although  they  don't 
want  it  themselves,"  and  Raymond  laughed  merrily. 

Churchill  said  with  equal  good-humour,  that  he  had  no 
sensations  of  intellectual  power.  For  a  long  time  he  had 
felt  as  if  he  had  lost  the  faculty  of  thinking,  if  indeed  he  ever 
possessed  it. 

Then,  serious  again,  Raymond  amplified  his  point. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  385 

"Take  the  life  of  Christ  and  His  teaching — you  agree  with 

^Very  nearly." 

Then  suppose  that  were  accepted  as  an  ideal  and  we 
labelled  it  philosophy  instead  of  religion,  you  would  say  it 
was  all  right  ?" 

"Yes." 

"But  if  Christ  the  philosopher  had  said,  'Here  is  my 
theory  of  the  highest  form  of  life,  and  I  give  you  as  a  frame- 
work of  thought,  an  aid  to  achievement,  a  stimulus  to  desire, 
this  conception  of  a  second  unending  life,  immortality,  and 
eternal  reward' — supposing  He  said  plainly,  'It  may  not  be 
true,  but  it  will  help  you ;  therefore  act  as  if  it  were  true' — 
would  you  admit  it  then  ?" 

But  Edward  Churchill  could  not  admit  it,  even  on  such 
terms  as  these. 

"I  think  I  see  the  essence  of  your  difficulty,"  said  Ray- 
mond, quite  seriously.  "It  is  revolt  against  the  supernatural, 
because  of  the  harm  that  has  been  caused  by  superstitious 
people.  You  won't  touch  it  with  a  barge  pole.  To  do  what 
I  suggest  seems  to  you  like  playing  with  truth — like  trifling 
with  one's  reasoning  faculties.  Those  who  believed  and  yet 
whose  religion  had  no  deeper  roots  in  faith  would  be,  as  it 
were,  making  a  wager  with  the  unknown  on  the  principle 
of  Heads  I  win,  Tails  I  don't  lose.  And  you  feel  that  this 
sort  of  gambling — that  any  sort  of  gambling — must  be  wrong 
when  the  stake  is  a  lifelong  state  of  mind." 

This  and  other  talks  with  Mr.  Raymond  influenced  him 
more  than  he  knew.  One  or  two  things  said  by  Raymond 
stuck  in  his  memory  and  started  trains  of  altering  thought. 
Recalling  one  of  them,  he  made  this  note  in  his  diary — 

"In  regard  to  religion,  it  is  worth  remembering  that 
nearly  all  men  who  cease  to  believe  in  God,  etc.,  etc. 
(as  probably  a  very  large  proportion  of  men  do  cease 
to  believe  at  a  certain  period  of  life),  have  received 
early  religious  training.  At  the  time  when  their  minds 
were  plastic,  and,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  they 
were  forming  their  code  of  ethics,  the  life  of  Christ  and 
the  lesson  of  self-sacrifice  was  constantly  before  them 
as  the  ideal  of  perfect  conduct ;  and  thus  habits  of 


386  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

thought  were  formed  and  lines  of  action  accepted,  once 
and  for  all,  as  correct. 

"This  ethical  code  of  everyday  life  remains  with 
them  as  something  solid  (indeed  so  solid  as  easily  to  be 
mistaken  for  intuitive  instinct)  when  the  religious  belief 
has  entirely  gone.  And  they  fail,  perhaps,  to  analyse 
what  their  mental  state  might  have  been  if,  instead  of 
ceasing  to  believe,  they  had  never  believed  at  all." 

And  a  little  later  he  made  another  note,  recording  fresh 
revision  of  opinions — 

"I  think  I  may  have  been  wrong  in  not  attaching 
its  full  value  to  sacrifice  itself  as  the  keynote  to  the 
highest  life,  and  have  perhaps  under-estimated  the 
essential  pleasure  of  giving  oneself  for  others  when 
attributing  avoidance  of  personal  pain  as  its  logical 
aim  and  justification." 

But  he  clung  still  to  his  old  rational  thesis,  for  he  soon  added 
to  this  note. 

"If  by  experience  and  reflection  one  is  slowly  forced 
to  the  vindication  of  Christ's  truth  and  an  acceptance 
of  it  in  its  entirety  as  the  great  secret — give  all — it 
should  not  be  to  gain  rewards  in  another  world,  but  for 
peace  in  this.  The  only  true  happiness  is  in  giving 
happiness  to  others — if  you  admit  that,  all  the  rest  still 
follows  as  selfish  wisdom  really.  If  a  man  wants  your 
cloak  as  well  as  your  coat,  give  it  to  him.  Not  for 
his  sake,  but  for  your  sake.  It  is  the  only  way  of  being 
done  with  it,  and  going  on  again  in  peace. 

"For  those  you  love  give  all,  and  taste  the  joy  of 
giving — no  half-measures,  no  limitations.  Give  your 
time,  your  inclinations,  your  thoughts,  and  convictions 
even — for  those  you  love.  It  is  not  immolation  of  self : 
it  is  the  lightening  and  strengthening  of  self. 

"For  the  honour  of  the  race,  for  the  justice  of  a 
cause,  give  all.  Answer  the  call  each  time  that  you 
hear  it  clearly,  whether  it  is  the  cry  of  a  little  child, 
the  whispering  voice  of  the  wind,  or  the  clash  of  arms 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  387 

and  the  trumpets  of  war.  Give  life  itself,  if  necessary. 
Because  life  is  useless  when  you  inwardly  disapprove  of 
yourself,  and  are  unhappy,  restless,  from  not  living  up 
to  your  ideal.  This  belief  and  rule  of  conduct  lifts  one 
above  fear  and  all  other  miseries ;  it  robs  destiny  of  its 
worst  weapons.  Kill  me  when  you  like,  but  you  cannot 
hurt  me.  All  is  in  me — nothing  outside  me.  I  am 
lord  of  myself,  and  therefore  lord  of  all." 


XLVII 

HE  was  sorry  when  he  had  completed  the  library  catalogue 
and  his  job  came  to  an  end.  He  saw  little  more  of  his  new 
friend,  but  the  links  between  them  were  not  broken.  Ray- 
mond wrote  to  him  now  and  then,  and  evidently  was  often 
thinking  about  him.  He  called  once  or  twice  at  the  house 
at  Canal  Bank,  and  left  books  that  he  wanted  Churchill  to 
read. 

"With  reference  to  our  talk  about  the  Working  Hypo- 
thesis," he  wrote  once,  "I  have  come  upon  something  that 
gives  precisely  what  I  expressed  so  lamely.  I  send  you  'a 
certified  true  copy'  of  the  passage.  The  writer  is  a  learned 
professor,  who,  I  gather,  is  considered  to  be  very  much 
'up-to-date.' >: 

Churchill  read  the  transcript  with  attention.  It  dealt  with 
the  uses  men  make  of  God.  The  professor  said:  "The 
truth  of  the  matter  can  be  put  in  this  way :  God  is  not  known, 
he  is  understood ;  he  is  used — sometimes  as  meat-purveyor, 
sometimes  as  moral  support,  sometimes  as  friend,  sometimes 
as  an  object  of  love.  If  he  proves  himself  useful,  the  reli- 
gious consciousness  asks  for  no  more  than  that.  Does  God 
really  exist?  How  does  he  exist?  What  is  he?  are  so 
many  irrelevant  questions.  Not  God,  but  life,  more  life,  a 
larger,  richer,  more  satisfying  life,  is,  in  the  last  analysis, 
the  end  of  religion.  The  love  of  live,  at  any  and  every  level 
of  development,  is  the  religious  impulse." 

The  books  that  Raymond  sent  him  contained  the  most 
recent  utterances  of  the  practical  philosophers  and  psycholo- 
gists of  the  hour.  These  writers  were,  in  the  cant  phrase, 
up-to-date,  and  Churchill  was  astonished  by  their  tolerance 
in  regard  to  religion.  He  had  not  known  how  far  the 
pendulum  of  thought  had  swung.  It  seemed  as  if,  since 
his  Oxford  days,  the  men  of  science  had  changed  sides. 

These  books  also  influenced  him,  causing  him  further  to 
modify  to  a  certain  extent  ideas  that  he  had  thought  final. 

One  result  of  his  intercourse  with  Mr.  Raymond  was  a 

388 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  389 

renewal  of  Churchill's  efforts  to  earn  money  by  the  use  of 
his  pen.  Raymond,  proving  as  good  as  his  word,  had  intro- 
duced him  to  a  well-known  London  editor  and  put  him  in 
the  right  way  of  setting  to  work.  He  wrote  articles  and 
short  stories,  and  perhaps  one  out  of  four  was  accepted,  and 
paid  for  at  a  modest  rate.  This  measure  of  success,  although 
obviously  not  sufficient  to  provide  bread  and  cheese  for  even 
the  smallest  appetites,  contented  him;  and  the  hours  that 
he  stole  from  each  night  for  the  pleasure  of  writing  refreshed 
rather  than  fatigued  him  after  the  long  day's  work. 

But  gradually  he  felt  compelled  to  forego  this  pleasure. 
It  took  him  too  much  out  of  himself,  and  seemed  likely  to 
interfere  with  the  still  greater  pleasure  of  sharing  more 
fully  in  the  labours' of  Allan  Gates.  Night  and  day  were  all 
one  to  Allan  when  there  was  good  work  to  be  done.  He 
kept  the  club-room  open  for  night-workers,  made  them 
coffee  and  hot  food,  and  if  the  chance  came,  tackled  them 
about  their  immortal  souls  while  they  stowed  away  his  Irish 
stew  or  blew  upon  the  surface  of  a  plateful  of  boiling  soup. 
He  was  "all  out"  for  the  lost  sheep,  the  straggler,  the 
obstinate  wrongturner  who  wanted  a  bit  of  driving  to  keep 
on  the  direct  road  to  the  heavenly  pen  fold. 

Churchill,  aiding  him  more  and  more,  keeping  him  com- 
pany at  night  and  carrying  out  his  directions  in  every  spare 
minute  of  the  day,  admiring  him,  and  loving  him,  thought 
often  of  religion  in  relation  to  Allan  himself.  It  was  good 
for  Allan — no  one  could  doubt  that.  It  was  the  larger, 
fuller  life  that  the  up-to-date  philosopher  spoke  of;  it  was 
everything  in  Allan's  case.  It  was  good,  too,  for  the  fish- 
porters  and  packers  that  ate  the  stew  and  gulped  the  coffee ; 
it  remained  with  them,  keeping  them  warm  when  the  after- 
glow of  digestion  had  faded.  For  them  it  was  an  anaesthetic 
to  pain,  a  stimulant  to  endurance.  You  could  not  study 
Allan's  converts  closely  without  recognising  its  objective 
effects  upon  them.  And  he  thought  of  it  as  a  working 
hypothesis  that  might  be  useful  if  adopted  by  the  whole 
town  of  Danesborough,  till  they  could  get  anything  better. 
The  place  wanted  spiritualising  somehow,  anyhow.  A  place 
without  a  soul — that  had  been  his  first  strong  impression  of 
Danesborough.  As  an  awakening,  elevating  force,  religion 
must  be  good  for  Danesborough. 


390  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

But  the  working  hypothesis  was  good  for  Lilian,  too. 
Beautiful  as  her  nature  had  always  been,  religion  had  raised 
her  to  a  higher  plane;  objectively,  as  well  as  in  the  world 
of  her  sweet  kind  thoughts,  it  had  given  her  strength.  For 
her  it  had  taken  nearly  all  the  ugliness  out  of  life,  wherever 
she  went  now  it  surrounded  her  with  lovely  things ;  because 
of  its  dream-glory  neither  cold  nor  want  nor  weariness 
could  really  touch  her.  Because  of  it  nothing  that  foolish 
people  ever  said  of  her  or  thought  of  her  mattered  any 
longer.  And  it  had  done  all  this  for  her  while  he  stood  by 
and  watched.  He  himself,  loving  her  more  than  life,  had 
been  able  to  do  nothing  for  her. 

He  thought,  with  immense  regret,  of  how  he  had  once 
talked  to  her  of  her  dream;  stupidly,  brutally  breaking  into 
it  with  his  own  conceptions  of  reality.  Why  must  he  blurt 
out  his  private  opinions?  Why  couldn't  he  keep  them  to 
himself,  or  hold  them  close  until  a  chance  came  to  give 
them  an  airing  with  a  man  like  Raymond  ?  He  remembered 
how  Allan  had  reproached  him  for  roughly  touching  the 
dream.  He  must  have  been  mad. 

From  this  point  onwards  he  did  more  than  refer  to  Allan 
those  who  made  inquiries  about  religion;  he  advised  people 
to  seek  Allan  for  religious  instruction.  He  had  persuaded 
himself  that  this  was  wise,  indeed  inevitable,  under  the  pre- 
vailing conditions  of  the  town's  life.  When  he  had  brought 
about  an  improved  state  of  mind  in  some  poor  lad  who 
now  wished  to  live  cleanly  and  sensibly,  he  handed  him 
over  to  Allan  for  the  dose  of  superstition  that  would  con- 
firm the  cure.  When  with  infinite  toil  he  had  prevailed  upon 
a  hardened  drunkard  to  give  up  drinking,  it  was  too  cold 
and  tame  an  argument  for  his  limited  intelligence  that  self- 
respect  compels  a  never-ceasing  care  for  and  reverential 
treatment  of  this  marvellous  organism  of  body  and  brain; 
but  the  fancy  that  our  poor  bodily  frame  had  been  fashioned 
in  the  exact  image  of  an  all-powerful  God,  and  that  degrada- 
tion of  the  one  is  an  outrage  and  a  sorrow  to  the  other,  had 
a  fullness  of  import  and  a  flattering  warmth  that  might  keep 
the  contrite  but  thirsty  transgressor  outside  of  tavern  doors. 
Churchill's  "Don't  do  it,  because  it  hurts  you"  was  feeble 
when  compared  with  Allan's  "Don't  do  it,  because  it  hurts 
God."  Churchill's  teaching  was  awakening;  what  Gates 


391 

taught  was  sustaining.  One  said,  "Don't  make  a  beast  of 
yourself.  It  may  be  difficult,  but  don't  be  a  beast."  The 
other  said,  "Why  not  be  an  angel?  It  is  quite  easy.  I'll 
show  you  how,  and  then  you  can't  fail." 

So  the  infidel  proselytised  for  the  believer.  Allan's  best 
recruiting  agent  was  the  man  who  had  deserted  from  the 
army  and  didn't  mean  to  rejoin  it.  They  were  a  stranger 
couple  of  partners  than  ever. 

During  the  October  of  their  fifth  year  at  Danesborough, 
Allan  Gates  was  often  away,  sometimes  for  three  or  four 
days  at  a  time;  and  during  these  absences  he  threw  the 
entire  management  of  his  mission-  and  club-rooms  on 
Churchill's  hands.  He  used  to  return  generally  late  at  night, 
and  come  with  a  beaming  face  to  relieve  his  deputy.  "Don't 
tell  me  things  have  gone  all  right,"  he  would  say  cheerily. 
"I  can  see  they  have.  I  can  feel  it  in  the  air."  He  never 
said  what  business  had  called  him  from  his  post,  and  he  took 
it  for  granted  that  Churchill  would  always  lay  aside  his 
own  affairs  in  order  to  replace  him. 

One  night  when  he  had  come  back  in  this  manner, 
Churchill  asked  him  if  he  would  be  there  next  day.  He 
himself  wished  to  go  to  see  Vickers.  Although  a  visit  was 
not  due,  Vickers  had  telegraphed  asking  him  to  come  at 
once. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Gates,  "I  know,  I  know.  Go  to  him 
without  delay.  Yes,  I  shall  be  on  duty  here;"  and  he 
insisted  that  Edward  should  go  off  to  bed,  as  he  would  be 
starting  early  in  the  morning.  "We  will  speak  of  all  this 
to-morrow.  Go  and  rest  now." 

But  in  the  morning  Edward  went  off  without  seeing  Allan. 
It  was  very  early,  he  was  travelling  by  the  first  train,  he 
meant  to  be  back  as  soon  as  possible ;  and  he  paused  outside 
Allan's  door,  but  would  not  go  in  and  wake  him. 

It  was  rtill  early  when  he  reached  the  Sanatorium,  before 
the  patients'  toilets  had  been  made,  and  he  was  kept  waiting 
in  the  hall.  After  a  while  Miss  Faulkner,  the  matron, 
appeared. 

"They  have  told  him  you  have  come,"  she  said.  "He 
•will  be  very  glad,  poor  fellow."  She  spoke  kindly  and 
sympathetically,  looking  at  Churchill  with  serious  eyes. 
"You  will  see  a  great  change  in  him." 


392 

"Is  he  worse?" 

"Oh,  yes.  But  that  isn't  what  I  meant ;"  and  she  looked 
at  Churchill  more  searchingly.  "Hasn't  Mr.  Gates  told 
you?" 

"No.  Has  he  been  here  lately?" 

"Yes,  often.    He  was  here  till  yesterday." 

In  the  few  moments  before  a  nurse  came  to  conduct 
him  upstairs  Churchill  asked  many  questions.  Vickers  had 
taken  a  turn  for  the  worse  a  few  weeks  ago,  and  they  had 
not  at  first  anticipated  any  immediate  danger,  but  in  the 
last  two  days  his  state  had  become  serious.  Dr.  Ellis 
would  have  summoned  Churchill,  if  Vickers  had  not  already 
done  so.  Dr.  Ellis  would  be  here  directly. 

From  the  threshold  of  the  room  one  could  hear  the  sick 
man's  breathing,  very  shallow  and  rapid;  through  the  open 
windows  the  sunshine  came  pouring  into  the  room,  almost 
blinding  one  after  the  subdued  light  of  the  hall  and  stair- 
case; Churchill,  moving  forward  slowly  towards  the  bed, 
saw  the  gaunt  figure  propped  up  high  upon  the  pillows,  the 
wasted  hands  clasped  as  if  in  prayer,  the  head  bowed  down 
as  if  in  sleep.  Then  Vickers  looked  up  quickly,  and 
Churchill  saw  his  face. 

"Churchill!     I  knew  you  wouldn't   fail  me,"  and  he 
smiled  and  stretched  out  his  hands. 

"I  did  not  know  how  ill  you  were,  or  I  would  have  come 
sooner." 

Churchill  could  scarcely  speak  because  of  his  great  won- 
der. Vickers  was  transfigured:  he  was  another  man. 
Obviously  he  was  dying  or  soon  would  die,  yet  it  could  not 
be  the  aspect  of  approaching  death  that  had  wrought  so 
startling  a  change.  His  face  with  the  full  sunlight  on  it  was 
thin  and  white;  every  trace  of  sensuality  had  passed  from 
it;  his  eyes  were  clear  and  very  bright,  unblinking  in  the 
sunshine,  gazing  yearningly.  He  breathed  fast  and  his 
voice  was  husky,  but  the  smile  about  his  lips  was  like  a 
flicker  of  joy;  and  one  felt,  one  knew  instinctively,  that  he 
was  not  suffering  any  pain,  that  his  mind  was  unclouded 
and  quite  calm.  To  Churchill,  shaken  by  wonder,  it  seemed 
that  this  was  not  Vickers  dying,  but  Vickers  born  again. 
This  was  the  man  he  might  have  been,  the  man  he  should 
have  been,  throughout  the  ugly,  worthless  life  now  drawing 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  393 

to  a  close.  These  impressions  were  so  powerful,  and  pos- 
sessed him  so  completely,  that  Churchill  stood  by  the  bedside 
motionless  and  silent,  and  for  a  few  moments  could  not  hear 
what  Vickers  was  saying  to  him. 

"I  wanted  to  see  you.  They  don't  tell  me  so,  but  I  know 
my  time  is  short." 

Then  Churchill  drew  a  chair  to  the  bed,  and  sat  with  the 
sick  man's  hand  in  his.  Vickers  had  difficulty  in  speaking, 
so  that  he  talked  a  little,  then  closed  his  eyes  and  rested, 
and  then  went  on  talking  again. 

"Churchill,  as  a  Christian,  forgive  me." 

"I  have  nothing  to  forgive,  Vickers.  If  I  ever  had,  it  is 
more  than  forgiven.  It  is  forgotten.  Do  you  forgive  me  ?" 

"I  have  nothing  to  forgive.  I  never  had."  And  Vickers 
spoke  of  Lilian.  "Churchill,  what  can  I  do?  Too  late. 
It  is  in  other  hands." 

Then  he  told  how  by  the  aid  of  Allan  Gates  he  had  been 
reconciled  with  God,  and  felt  the  assurance  of  salvation. 
He  quoted  Allan's  favourite  text — "There  is  more  joy  in 
heaven" — and  spoke  of  God's  mercy  and  infinite  love. 
There  was  not  a  doubt  in  Edward  Churchill's  mind  but 
that  all  this  was  absolutely  genuine.  Indeed  who  could 
doubt?  And  it  was  not  the  coward's  deathbed  conversion. 
Vickers  was  brave ;  he  spoke  without  a  touch  of  fear,  say- 
ing, "O  death,  where  is  thy  sting?  O  grave,  where  is  thy 
victory  ?" 

He  spoke  again  of  forgiveness,  using  one  of  his  old  pet 
phrases.  "As  man  to  man,  I  want  you  to  forgive.  Not 
only  as  Christians,  but  as  man  to  man,  let  me  feel  that  all  is 
open  between  us."  And  he  told  Churchill  how  he  had  hoped 
that  those  men  would  kill  him.  "Yes,  I  was  a  murderer  in 
heart.  And  I  intended,  if  you  were  out  of  the  way,  to  get 
Lilian  back  and  punish  her  by  every  devilish  humiliation,  to 
make  her  suffer  the  torments  of  the  damned.  That  was  my 
plan — my  hope  of  revenge.  Perhaps  you  don't  know  what  a 
bad  man's  thoughts  are." 

"Vickers,  forget  them.  You  had  such  thoughts  only  for 
a  little  while." 

Churchill  asked  him  if  he  wished  to  see  Lilian,  and  he  said 
yes,  he  would  like  her  to  be  fetched  next  day,  but  he  wanted 
Churchill  to  stay  with  him  now.  In  the  afternoon  of  that 


394  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

day  the  doctors  said  his  state  was  worse,  and  Churchill  asked 
him  again  if  he  should  send  for  Lilian. 

"No — not  now.    You  stay  with  me." 

Then  soon  he  fell  into  a  dozing,  semi-unconscious  condi- 
tion, and  so  remained  all  through  that  night  and  the  following 
day.  The  doctors  said  there  was  not  the  faintest  hope  that 
he  could  rally.  It  was  all  quite  natural,  just  what  one  could 
expect,  and  really  one  should  hardly  desire  anything  differ- 
ent from  this  happy  release. 

But  Churchill,  who  never  left  him  till  the  end,  would 
have  had  it  different,  if  it  had  lain  with  him  to  keep  this 
man  alive.  It  was  man  to  man  now.  It  was  not  grief  or  pity 
for  mankind,  sorrow  for  all  men  because  life  is  so  short  and 
death  so  cruel;  it  was  burning  regret  and  bitter  pain  be- 
cause to  this  man — the  softened  Vickers  who  had  clung  to 
his  hand  and  looked  at  him  with  affectionate  eyes — all  the 
sunshine  out  there  on  the  quiet  meadows,  the  colours  of  the 
autumn  trees,  the  blue  void  of  the  cloudless  sky,  were  fading, 
darkening,  and  soon  must  b^  for  ever  gone. 

The  end  came  towards  dawn  of  the  third  day.  He  had 
been  conscious  again,  murmuring  rapid  words,  and  Churchill, 
stooping  over  him  to  catch  the  faint  whisper,  heard  him  say, 
"Forgiven;  yes,  forgiven,"  and  then  in  hurried  repetition, 
"O  God  of  love !— O  God  of  love !" 

It  was  the  last  word  that  came  from  those  lips — love. 
After  that  he  was  unconscious  for  a  long  time,  and  he  died 
just  when  the  birds  had  begun  to  sing  in  the  garden  below 
the  window  and  all  the  world  was  about  to  awake. 


XLVIII 

THE  wonder  evoked  by  the  conversion  of  Vickers  tinged 
the  whole  stream  of  Churchill's  thought.  Considered  merely 
as  a  bit  of  professional  work  boldly  attacked  and  smartly 
carried  through,  it  seemed  a  most  striking  success  for  Allan 
Gates.  Surely  never  did  an  enterprising  professional  man 
bring  off  a  bigger  or  a  more  unlikely  coup.  But  Allan  made 
nothing  of  it,  appeared  to  consider  it  scarcely  worth  talking 
about,  and,  when  urged  to  discussion,  even  attempted  to 
attribute  it  primarily  to  Edward  rather  than  to  himself. 

"Dear  old  boy,"  said  Allan,  "you  had  done  so  much  for 
him  that  it  was  as  well  to  complete  the  job.  It  was  always 
in  my  mind,  as  something  to  finish — something  that  had  to  be 
finished  sooner  or  later." 

"Did  you  speak  to  him  about  religion  that  first  time  that 
you  went  over  to  see  him  without  me  ?" 

"Oh,  no.  Not  a  word  for  ages — not  till  this  last  month, 
when  he  began  to  ask  me  questions  and  I  saw  that  the  time 
was  ripe." 

"He  was  in  his  usual  state  then — I  mean  physically  ?" 

"Yes." 

"He  had  not  begun  to  get  worse  ?" 

"No.  Poor  chap,  he  was  full  of  hope  about  his  condition, 
still  talking  of  Australia  and  all  the  great  things  that  he 
intended  to  do." 

"Allan,  it  seems  to  me  incredible.  I  don't  know  how  you 
did  it." 

Then  Allan  repudiated  all  credit  in  the  matter,  and  said 
that  it  was  the  conduct  of  Edward  Churchill  that  had 
softened  the  heart  of  Vickers.  "That  was  my  first  start," 
said  Allan.  "Bit  by  bit,  I  got  him  to  understand  how  much 
you  had  given  up  for  his  sake.  I  got  him  to  see  into  the  true 
meaning  of  the  sacrifice  you  had  made." 

"Allan,  it  had  no  meaning.  We  were  given  no  choice. 
We  were  forced  to  do  it." 

"Were  you?"  and  Allan  smiled.  "And  perhaps  Vickers 

395 


396  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

had  no  choice.  At  any  rate,  it  was  all  easy  for  me  when 
once  we  got  started.  Strength  came  to  me  in  prayer.  .  .  . 
Now  let's  talk  of  something  else.  I  think  you  had  better 
be  married  by  license.  I  will  arrange  the  service  at  St. 
Peter's.  We'll  have  it  in  the  morning,  with  the  church  all 
to  ourselves.  Shall  we  say  about  a  fortnight  from  now?" 

"Strength  came  to  me  in  prayer."  Churchill,  meditating 
on  the  believer's  childlike  faith,  thought  once  more  that 
Allan  could  not  have  been  what  he  was  unless  an  orthodox 
Christian.  Nor  could  their  friendship  have  been  quite  so 
fine  a  thing.  From  Allan  one  could  receive  any  benefit 
without  feeling  the  burden  of  obligation ;  one  could  work  for 
him  or  lean  upon  him,  take  from  him  or  give  to  him — 
because  on  Allan's  side  it  was  not  merely  friendship,  it  was 
the  brotherhood  of  Christianity  which  transcends  the  com- 
mon measure  of  humanity  and  counts  no  cost  because  no 
cost  is  felt. 

He  thought  of  the  reality  of  the  effects  produced  by 
religion.  What  else  could  have  lifted  Vickers?  What  else 
could  have  robbed  death  of  its  anguish  and  fear?  It  was 
more,  much  more  than  the  doctor's  anaesthetic  drug.  Not  as 
an  inert  log  drifting,  but  high  and  light  upon  a  wave  of  faith, 
he  had  passed  out  across  the  dark  sea.  "O  death,  where  is 
thy  sting?  .  .  .  O  God  of  love,  into  thy  hands  do  I  com- 
mit my  spirit.  .  .  ."  And  the  rescued  women — the  soulless 
men  of  the  town — the  self -destroyers  snatched  from  the 
coil  of  vice,  utterly  changed  by  religion,  sent  back  into  the 
world  made  strong  by  the  illusion?  And  Lilian?  It  even 
purified  and  dignified  her  love  for  him ;  so  that,  while  quite 
outside  it,  he  had  still  to  this  extent  benefited  by  it. 

He  realised  that  his  quarrel  with  religion  was  at  an  end. 
He  thought  of  himself.  His  abandonment  of  religion  was 
due  to  two  things — the  disappointment  about  his  mother  and 
the  bar  to  his  love  for  Lilian.  But  that  prohibition  was  only 
the  fetters  of  stupid  Church  law.  It  had  nothing  to  do  with 
religion  itself. 

And  what  had  he  got  in  exchange  for  all  that  he  had  dis- 
carded? Nothing.  He  had  originated  nothing.  Slowly 
but  surely  he  had  come  to  a  reasoned  acceptance  of  Christ's 
teaching  in  its  entirety  as  the  key  to  human  life. 

They  had  no  music,  singing,  or  pretty  flowers  at  their 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  397 

wedding ;  the  big  church  was  empty ;  not  a  single  nursemaid 
or  idle  work-girl  came  in  from  the  street  to  watch  them  join 
hands.  But  beams  of  kindly  sunlight  from  the  clerestory 
windows  fell  upon  the  bride,  making  her  sweet  face  shine 
and  lighting  the  tender  depths  of  her  eyes,  as  she  turned 
to  the  man  she  loved  and  plighted  her  troth  "according  to 
God's  holy  ordinance."  She  needed  no  pomp  of  decked 
altars,  no  vibrant  swell  of  organ  melodies,  to  make  her  lips 
tremble  and  her  heart  throb ;  if  the  whole  church  had  been 
crowded  with  people,  and  each  one  a  friend  who  wished 
her  joy,  she  would  still  have  felt  what  she  felt  now — that 
they  two  were  standing  quite  alone  in  the  presence  of  their 
Creator.  Every  word  she  uttered  was  at  once  a  vow  of 
loyalty  and  a  prayer  for  pardon. 

Allan,  reading  the  service,  was  like  an  affectionate  friend 
welcoming  his  guests,  like  a  brother  speaking  to  a  brother, 
like  a  father  speaking  to  a  child.  His  fervent  devotion,  his 
simple  trustfulness,  made  an  atmosphere  of  cheerful  faith 
that  was  bright  and  warm  as  the  sunlight  itself. 

"...  The  Lord  mercifully  with  his  favour  look  upon 
you."  His  friendly  voice,  shaken  once  or  twice  by  the 
strength  of  his  affection,  sounded  full  and  firm  as  he  con- 
cluded the  blessing — "and  so  fill  you  with  all  spiritual  bene- 
diction and  grace,  that  ye  may  so  live  together  in  this  life 
that  in  the  world  to  come  ye  may  have  life  everlasting." 

And  Edward  Churchill  thought,  "Why  can  not  I  believe  ?" 
The  touch  of  his  wife's  hand,  the  sight  of  her  bowed  head, 
her  gentleness,  her  goodness,  and  her  faith,  all  moved  him 
deeply.  Memories  of  what  she  had  been  to  him,  gratitude  as 
well  as  love,  filled  his  mind.  While  he  knelt  by  her  side, 
feeling  all  the  greatness  of  love,  he  felt  also,  mingling  with 
it,  the  true  religious  desire;  old  sensations  were  reviving; 
he  felt  a  yearning  for  her  happiness  and  welfare  that  had 
no  limits,  that  seemed  to  pass  beyond  his  control,  beyond 
this  life,  out  into  immense  space,  desperately  searching  for 
hope — seeming,  because  of  the  intense  character  of  the 
wish,  to  convert  itself  into  hope.  But  that,  as  he  told  him- 
self afterwards,  was  emotion  simply.  It  was  the  love  that 
itself  has  no  bounds  and  thus  gives  one  the  illusion  of  the 
infinite. 


XLIX 

ONCE  more  they  were  people  of  private  means.  By  the 
springtime  that  long  account  for  Robert  Vickers  had  been 
finally  settled,  and  they  came  into  the  enjoyment  of  their 
income  of  two  hundred  a  year.  This  was  fortunate,  for 
Churchill  was  passing  through  a  period  of  anxiety  and  could 
not  do  any  regular  work.  Lilian  was  about  to  become  a 
mother ;  her  health  gave  cause  for  some  alarm,  and  Edward 
devoted  himself  entirely  to  her  care. 

She  had  said,  when  first  telling  him  of  her  condition,  "It 
is  almost  miraculous.  It  is  the  lifting  of  the  hand  of  God ;" 
and  this  mystical  idea,  returning  again  and  again,  gained 
strength  and  seemed  to  take  complete  possesson  of  her  mind 
as  the  time  of  trial  drew  near. 

Their  friend  the  doctor  had  advised  Edward  that  a  state 
of  exaltation  was  not  desirable,  that  all  morbid  notions 
should  be  discountenanced,  but  that  nevertheless  she  must 
be  humoured  in  her  fancies  and  not  argued  with.  Then 
he  said  she  was  showing  emotional  instability ;  and  this  he 
considered  a  bad  sign.  Then  he  confessed  that  the  fact  of 
her  not  being  by  any  means  a  young  woman  rendered  him 
a  little  apprehensive. 

"She  is  only  thirty,"  said  Churchill ;  "and  this  will  not  be 
her  first  child." 

"No,"  said  Dr.  Foley,  "she  told  me  so.  And  the  other 
child  died.  I  think  that  memory  worries  her." 

Churchill  did  not  know  if  the  doctor  had  allowed  Lilian 
to  guess  his  apprehensions  on  the  score  of  age,  but  she  spoke 
herself  of  being  too  old,  linking  this  with  the  idea  that 
dominated  her. 

"Edward,  if  it  were  not  miraculous,  it  would  have  hap- 
pened long  ago — not  now  when  I  am  almost  an  old  woman." 

"My  darling,  look  at  yourself  in  the  glass.  You  are  a 
young  girl — younger  than  when  I  first  saw  your  dear  face." 
And  he  challenged  her  to  show  him  a  single  crow's-foot 
about  her  eyes  or  to  find  one  silver  thread  in  the  brown 
masses  of  her  pretty  hair. 

398 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  399 

"I'm  glad,"  she  said,  "if  I  still  seem  young  to  you.  But 
I  am  too  old  for  this,  unless — Edward,  I  shall  know  soon. 
It  will  mean  that  God  has  pardoned  me,  if  my  child  lives. 
Oh,  if  my  child  lives" — and  she  began  to  cry.  "I  used  to 
pray  that  I  might  be  childless  until  I  was  really  your  wife." 

The  Sisters  of  St.  Mildred  would  have  taken  her  away 
from  Danesborough  and  placed  her  in  a  Maternity  Home, 
but  she  refused  to  be  separated  from  her  husband.  Their 
proposal  agitated  her  greatly,  and  she  implored  Edward 
not  to  abandon  her  to  strange  hands,  however  kind  and 
gentle.  Sister  Maude  was  always  here,  and  she  did  not 
require  any  other  woman  friend.  Sister  Maude  would  not 
desert  her. 

Indeed  this  good,  sensible  friend  proved  of  immense  aid, 
and  but  for  her  support  and  counsel  Edward  would  have 
suffered  far  more  anxiety.  Sister  Maude  dismissed  Dr. 
Foley  from  the  case,  and  called  in  an  older  and  more  solid 
sort  of  man.  She  said  Dr.  Foley  was  all  right  as  a  friend, 
but  no  use  as  a  doctor.  He  was  nervous  and  fussy;  and  if 
it  came  to  instability  of  emotion,  he  was  ten  times  worse 
than  his  patient.  This  sounded  severe;  but  Sister  Maude 
stood  firm,  and  her  action  was  justified  by  immediately  ben- 
eficial results.  The  new  doctor  brought  with  him  such  a 
matter-of-fact  manner  and  talked  with  so  much  quiet  com- 
mon sense  that,  in  his  presence  at  least,  it  was  impossible  to 
brood  upon  mysterious  dangers  or  to  put  forward  miraculous 
intervenings  for  the  explanation  of  natural  events. 

"My  dear  madam,"  he  said  solidly,  "you  are  going  to 
have  a  fine,  large,  healthy  baby,  and  the  only  doubt  in  the 
matter  is  whether  it  is  going  to  be  a  boy  or  a  girl.  That  is 
all  you  need  trouble  your  head  about.  It  is  a  mild,  sunny 
morning.  Get  your  husband  to  take  you  for  a  little  stroll — 
say,  as  far  as  those  seats  by  the  lock  bridge.  Sit  down  there 
on  one  of  the  benches  and  discuss  names — male  and  female—* 
so  as  to  be  ready  for  the  christening." 

This  homely,  tonic  advice  did  the  patient  good.  She  and 
Edward  henceforth  occupied  themselves  often  with  the  great 
question  of  names,  exchanging  those  fond  compliments  that 
on  such  occasions  never  fail  to  touch  loving  hearts  or  to 
strike  the  eagerly  listening  ear  as  pretty  and  original.  Should 
it  be  a  girl-child,  as  Edward  said,  he  wished  that  she  might 


400 

grow  up  to  be  in  all  respects  exactly  like  her  mother;  and 
Lilian  felt  that  never  before  in  the  history  of  the  world  had 
a  man  said  anything  quite  so  sweet  to  the  poor  wife  who 
adored  him.  But  if  it  should  be  a  boy,  she  would  teach  him 
to  take  his  father  as  a  model,  imitating  him  in  thought  and 
in  act,  so  that  he  might  become  one  of  the  most  perfect  men 
that  ever  lived;  and  Edward,  declaring  his  total  unworthi- 
ness  of  this  eulogium,  thought,  "What  have  I  done,  what 
could  I  do  to  deserve  the  love  that  spoke  those  words  ?" 

The  boy  should  be  called  Edward.  On  that  she  was  de- 
termined— nothing  could  shake  her  from  her  decision.  The 
girl  should  not  be  called  Lilian.  And  as  to  this  she  was 
equally  determined.  So  he  yielded  the  second  point  also, 
saying  at  last,  "Yes,  you  are  right.  There  can  be  only  one 
Lilian.  She  must  have  no  competitors." 

She  asked  if  their  daughter  should  be  given  his  mother's 
name,  and  he  said,  "Yes,  he  would  like  to  call  the  girl  Edith." 

But  then  after  this  name  had  been  adopted  she  confessed 
to  a  fancy  for  something  else,  unless  he  had  set  his  heart  on 
the  repetition  of  his  mother's  name. 

"I  did  not  know  your  mother,  dear — but  it  is  not  because 
of  that.  But,  Edward,  I  feel  that  if  our  child  is  a  girl,  I 
want  her  to  be  all  new,  without  a  single  memory  or  regret — 
with  nothing  about  her  but  hope.  I  want  her  to  belong  to 
the  future,  and  to  take  nothing  from  the  past.  Do  you 
understand,  dear?  That's  why,  really,  I'd  like  her  to  have 
a  name  that  would  mean  nothing  to  either  of  us — a  name 
that  had  no  meaning  for  us  till  it  came  to  mean  her  herself. 
If  it  is  a  girl,  may  I  call  her  Stella?" 

"Yes,"  said  Edward  Churchill,  "let  us  call  her  Stella. 
And  Stella  shall  mean  all  of  my  world  that  is  not  you." 

A  girl-child  was  born  to  them,  and  the  child  lived  and 
thrived.  But  Lilian  lay  ill  for  a  long  time,  as  if,  after  finding 
strength  to  pass  through  so  many  storms,  the  respite  from 
pain  and  the  realisation  of  hope  were  proving  too  much  for 
her.  The  autumn  had  come  before  she  was  up  and  about 
again.  Then  quickly  she  grew  strong — strong  enough  to 
face  all  her  happiness.  The  care  of  the  child  was  now  her 
only  toil.  Pretty  things  were  to  be  bought  for  the  child, 
she  who  had  stinted  herself  was  to  be  lavish  for  the  child ; 
in  this  direction  money  could  not  be  counted,  extravagance 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  401 

seemed  to  be  one's  highest  duty.  Edward  Churchill  was 
working  hard  again;  if  his  own  money  ran  out  like  water, 
he  would  soon  earn  other  money;  he  would  always  make 
enough  and  to  spare,  and  he  told  himself  that  he  had  no  care 
that  was  not  merely  material. 

The  baby  Stella  was  the  light  of  their  life.  All  the  house, 
all  the  neighbourhood  petted  her,  so  that  Lilian  in  her  first 
outings  with  a  perambulator  made  a  sort  of  royal  progress, 
stopped  at  every  corner  by  a  little  knot  of  the  admiring 
population  eager  to  do  reverence  to  the  young  princess. 
Gates,  her  godfather,  already  worshipped  her  and  was  her 
obedient  slave.  Old  Bosworth  the  actor  brought  her  toys, 
snapped  his  fingers  at  her,  and  said  "Ta-ta.  Be  good." 
Sister  Maude  was  a  second  nursemaid,  disputing  the  peram- 
bulater  with  its  rightful  owner.  And  to  the  intense  gratifi- 
cation of  Lilian,  this  little  world  of  theirs  not  only  loved  her 
baby,  but  all  admitted  freely  that  Stella  was  a  remarkable 
child.  Her  intelligence  was  as  striking  as  her  beauty.  She 
knew  her  daddy,  could  recognise  his  step  upon  the  stairs 
at  an  abnormally  early  age.  If  she  maintained  her  present 
rate  of  progress,  she  would  talk  fluently  before  she  had 
celebrated  her  first  birthday. 

Edward  Churchill  watched  her  and  her  mother  with  an 
immense  fondness.  This  wonder  of  unfolding  life  en- 
chanted him  and  held  him  spellbound.  He  gloried  in  their 
child,  thinking,  perhaps  with  sudden  sadness  in  the  midst 
of  love  and  joy,  "Here  is  the  true  immortality,  the  only 
immortality  vouchsafed  to  man." 

Thus  a  year  of  parenthood  went  by — just  time  enough  for 
a  child's  small  hands  to  reach  and  hold  one's  heart. 

Then  their  baby  Stella  fell  ill.  It  was  a  cold,  nothing  at 
first — just  a  question  of  keeping  her  indoors  for  a  few  days, 
but  the  doctor  in  attendance  as  an  extra  precaution.  Then 
she  became  a  little  worse,  with  the  chest  affected,  and  yet  she 
was  still  "well  in  herself,"  as  you  could  see,  playing  with  her 
rattle,  following  her  mother  with  bright  eyes,  taking  interest. 
Then  Lilian  suddenly  took  alarm;  and  the  doctor,  hastily 
summoned  one  morning,  said  that  pneumonia  had  set  in. 
The  child  was  dangerously  ill. 

Late  that  evening  when  Edward  returned  from  work,  it 


402  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

was  to  find  his  wife  wide-eyed,  trembling,  almost  distraught. 
The  doctor  was  upstairs  waiting  to  see  him.  He  had  brought 
a  trained  nurse ;  they  were  fighting  with  death. 

The  doctor  said  that  everything  possible  had  been  done; 
if  all  the  physicians  in  London  were  fetched  they  could  do 
no  more,  and  he  spoke  of  the  rapid  onset  of  the  disease  and 
the  power  of  resistance  that  might  or  might  not  manifest 
itself.  He  was  kind,  in  his  blunt  way,  and  he  contrived  to 
make  his  voice  gentle  and  soft  when  he  spoke  to  Lilian ;  but 
he  allowed  them  both  to  understand  that  unless  an  improve- 
ment had  begun  by  next  day,  they  must  prepare  themselves 
for  the  worst.  He  would  come  again  during  the  night  or 
very  early  in  the  morning. 

Saying  a  few  last  words  to  Edward,  he  showed  quite 
plainly  that  he  himself  did  not  count  upon  recovery;  and 
Edward  went  back  to  his  wife  saying  to  himself,  "He  thinks 
she  will  die.  Yes,  he  thinks  she  will  die." 

They  sat  together,  watching  the  nurse  move  about  the 
room,  listening  to  the  sound  of  their  child's  breathing.  It 
sounded  like  the  faint  patter  of  rain  upon  glass,  or  the  flaring 
of  a  gas  jet  at  a  distance.  Lilian  could  not  long  keep  away 
from  the  cot.  She  crept  softly  to  it,  knelt  beside  it,  weeping 
and  praying.  And  Edward,  standing  behind  her  and  hearing 
her  whispered  prayers,  felt  a  burning  agony  of  pity. 

"Christ,  have  mercy  upon  us !  O  Lord  Christ,  have  mercy 
upon  us !" 

A  million  tiny  threads  that  had  woven  themselves  about 
his  heart  were  being  torn  asunder,  and  it  seemed  that  in 
breaking  they  would  break  his  heart  as  well.  The  torment 
and  the  dread  were  almost  insupportable.  The  night  was 
without  end.  Minutes  were  like  hours,  and  yesterday  was 
years  ago — yesterday,  when  the  sun  was  shining,  and  their 
darling  smiled  and  knew  her  mother's  face — yesterday,  be- 
fore this  nightmare  dream  of  darkness  and  despair  had 
begun. 

Once  during  the  night,  when  Lilian  sat  clinging  to  him, 
she  said,  "Allan  is  praying.  Go  down  and  see.  Ask  him 
to  pray." 

He  went  to  the  living-room  below,  and  Allan  comforted 
him  as  no  one  else  on  earth  could  have  done.  Alone  with 
his  friend,  he  broke  down  completely.  "My  poor  wife — my 


403 

poor  girl !  Allan,  it  is  too  cruel ;"  and  he  repeated  what  the 
doctor  had  said.  "Allan,  he  does  not  hope." 

"But  /  hope,"  said  Allan.    "Hope  too." 

"I  must  go  back  to  her.  Allan,  she  sent  me  to  ask  you  to 
pray." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Allan.  "I  shall  pray  all  through  the 
night.  Tell  her  I  know  our  prayers  have  been  heard.  I  hope 
they  are  being  granted." 

Edward  Churchill  went  back  to  the  room  upstairs,  and 
his  wife  was  again  on  her  knees  by  the  cot.  She  came  to 
him  presently  and  clung  to  him,  kissing  him,  holding  her 
wet  face  against  his;  whispering,  "Stay  with  me,"  not  re- 
pulsing him  because  he  too  could  not  pray,  loving  him  in  the 
midst  of  her  intolerable  anguish.  The  thought  of  her  loyal 
love  tore  him  to  pieces. 

The  child  recovered.  In  the  morning  the  doctor  was 
delighted  by  distinctly  favourable  symptoms.  Then,  after 
only  twenty  hours  of  suspense,  the  danger  had  gone;  the 
doctor  assured  them  that  there  was  no  further  cause  for 
fear. 

Nothing  could  ever  matter  now.  This  horror  had  passed 
away  from  them.  They  felt  like  people  rescued  from  a 
shipwreck,  like  people  cast  ashore  after  battling  desperately 
in  fierce  waves — lacerated,  broken,  half  dead,  but  unutterably 
thankful.  And  Lilian,  sobbing  on  his  breast,  said  again,  "It 
is  a  miracle.  Our  prayers  were  heard,  and  God  had 
mercy.  But  if  now  you  say  even  in  your  secret  thoughts 
that  you  don't  believe,  our  child  will  die." 

Their  child  lived.  Edward  Churchill,  walking  alone  far 
from  the  town,  along  the  tow-paths  towards  the  open  river, 
carried  with  him  the  picture  of  the  child  with  her  mother 
watching  her;  and  thought,  "If  I  were  to  say  'I  am  grateful 
but  I  do  not  believe.  I  am  grateful,  but  there  is  no  God,' 
how  could  it  possibly  affect  them?"  Yet  no  power  could 
have  made  him  say  it.  Because,  first,  it  would  have  been 
brutal  and  treacherous  to  Lilian,  and  because,  secondly, 
even  the  rejected  idea  of  saying  it  filled  him  with  returning 
dread  of  danger  to  the  child.  That,  of  course,  was  super- 
stition. But  in  this  case  he  must  not  fight  against  the  super- 
stitious instincts.  Although  one  can  not  bind  oneself  to 
nothing,  or  make  compacts  with  the  empty  air,  one  dare  not 


404  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

even  seem  to  run  a  fancied  risk  to  those  one  loves  in  order 
to  obtain  mental  calm  and  readjust  the  balance  of  one's 
secret  thoughts. 

But  beyond  these  reasons  why  he  could  not  say  it,  there 
was  a  massive  repulsion  in  himself.  Like  all  who  escape 
from  extreme  peril,  he  felt  an  immense  gratitude ;  a  desire 
to  give  thanks  so  strong  that  the  thanksgiving  wells  forth 
of  itself  and  must  and  will  find  its  outlet,  if  not  in  words,  if 
not  in  thought,  then  in  a  vague  but  imperious  need — to  thank 
things  that  have  had  no  part  in  one's  deliverance,  if  one  can 
not  find  active  agents.  What  an  immense  relief  and  satis- 
faction to  pour  forth  such  thankful  joy  to  God,  if  only  one 
could  believe.  And  he  recognised  in  himself  the  basic  long- 
ing which  leads  to  religious  belief.  He  thought  of  how  it 
would  have  been  with  him  in  the  past,  of  how  he  would 
have  offered  up  thanks;  of  the  lightness  of  spirit  that  he 
would  have  gained,  the  ease  that  would  have  come  to  his 
overflowing  heart. 

He  walked  fast,  carrying  his  hat  in  his  hand,  refreshing 
himself  with  the  movement  of  the  pleasant  air.  The  sun 
shone,  a  topsail  breeze  was  blowing  from  the  sea,  high 
clouds  raced  in  a  faint  blue  sky ;  the  men  on  the  barges  and 
working  the  lock  gates  had  bright  faces  and  gave  cheery 
shouts;  a  play  of  light  and  life  made  the  commonest  things 
seem  fine.  It  was  difficult  not  to  think  that  all  the  world 
shared  his  joy.  He  felt  himself  in  a  closer  communion  with 
every  one  he  met  or  looked  at,  and  he  wanted  to  stop  them, 
to  talk  to  them,  and  clap  them  on  the  back  and  laugh  and  tell 
them  that  his  child  who  might  have  died  had  been  spared. 

Out  by  the  water's  edge,  among  the  tumbled  sandhills 
and  the  bent  grass,  he  sat  listening  to  the  wind  and  thinking 
about  prayer.  He  remembered  parts  of  his  own  sermons  on 
the  efficacy  of  prayer.  He  thought  of  prayer,  as  Allan 
prayed,  and  he  recalled  his  own  dead  feelings,  and  saw  the 
reality  of  the  effect  of  prayer  subjectively.  He  thought  of 
how  strength  seemingly  external  comes  to  one — surging  up, 
as  some  philosophers  now  say,  from  the  subliminal  self,  and 
only  seeming  external  because  the  marginal  mystery  of  self 
is  so  remote  from  normal  consciousness — but  real  at  any 
rate  in  its  effect,  bringing  or  giving  one  courage,  serenity, 
endurance,  so  that  common  men  are  lifted  by  it  sometimes  to 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  405 

great  heights  of  heroic  aim  and  long-sustained  action.  That, 
at  least,  is  true  of  the  efficacy  of  prayer,  making  it  a  force 
that  philosophers  say  is  important.  But  it  is  lost,  forfeited, 
if  one  has  nothing  to  pray  to.  And  he  thought,  "Then  relig- 
ion must  be  good,  if  only  for  this."  And  he  thought  now  of 
the  religious  instinct,  or  desire  for  religion,  as  something 
permanent  and  in  the  scheme  of  progress,  and  not  as  an 
atavistic  trait,  the  fading  mark  of  superstition ;  and  he  felt 
that  this  was  true  also.  Within  the  last  two  years  he  had 
felt  the  impulse  in  himself  each  time  that  he  was  deeply 
moved.  He  could  suppress  it  and  ignore  it ;  but  he  could 
not  exorcise  it,  much  less  satisfy  it,  by  thoughts  of  a  rational 
plan  of  ethics.  It  and  reason  could  not  touch.  It  belonged 
to  elemental  emotion.  But  if  it  was  there  in  most  men, 
then  religion  must  be  good  for  them.  In  his  own  case  the 
wave  of  emotion  quickly  subsided,  and  reason  resumed  un- 
challenged sway.  There  was  but  a  transitory  discomfort; 
the  thwarted  sensations  caused  by  failure  of  a  natural  im- 
petus in  finding  its  natural  issue ;  a  constricted  realisation 
of  dryness,  coldness,  dullness,  in  lieu  of  a  voluminous  pos- 
sibility of  largeness,  glowing  warmth,  and  richly  dfffused 
light. 

Then  he  thought  once  more  of  the  working  hypothesis. 
Yes,  for  the  bulk  of  mankind  it  must  be  right.  And  for  the 
first  time  he  felt  the  full  extent  of  all  that  he  had  lost.  Not 
for  the  hope  of  eternal  life,  but  as  a  sustaining  force  in  this 
life,  how  great  is  the  loss  when  religious  beliefs  die.  And 
he  said  to  himself  again,  "Why  cannot  I  believe?" 

He  turned  slowly  homeward,  and  the  evening  glow  was  in 
the  sky;  dusk  threw  her  magic  veils  upon  the  earth,  and  all 
the  world  before  his  footsteps  grew  beautiful  and  grand. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  he  reached  the  dock  basins,  and 
suddenly  he  quickened  his  pace,  hurrying  towards  the  rows 
of  lamps  of  the  Canal  Bank  streets.  An  irrational  thought 
had  come  to  him.  Suppose  his  child  had  died  an  hour  ago ! 
He  hurried  on,  then  stopped,  stood  still,  and  freed  himself 
from  the  thraldom  of  baseless  fear.  But  he  walked  fast 
again  as  he  approached  the  house,  and  felt  his  heart  beating 
as  he  hurried  up  the  stairs.  The  child  was  sleeping  com- 
fortably. Her  mother  sat  by  the  cot,  watching  her  sleep. 
The  quiet  lamp-lit  room  formed  a  perfect  picture  of  peace 


406  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

after  storm.    Edward  Churchill  felt  ashamed  of  having  for 
a  moment  doubted  the  permanence  of  their  joy. 

He  reproached  himself  for  his  long  absence,  for  the 
yielding  to  a  desire  for  physical  exercise,  for  his  selfish  en- 
joyment of  the  hours  so  idly  spent  in  the  open  air.  He 
reproached  himself  too  for  his  meditations  and  inward 
searchings.  He  thought  now  that  of  late  he  had  been  weak- 
ening. He  had  fallen  into  that  old  folly  of  introspection, 
fostering  egoism  and  self-pity.  He  said  to  himself,  "I  have 
my  guide.  I  have  always  had  it;"  and  he  made  a  vow, 
"I  will  think  of  these  other  things  no  more" 


AND  indeed  he  had  no  time  now  to  think  of  anything 
except  the  hard  facts  of  external  life.  The  struggle  with 
ways  and  means  had  recommenced,  more  difficult  now  a 
hundredfold  than  it  had  been  before,  because  of  their 
increasing  needs.  Doctors'  fees,  nurses'  fees,  the  many 
costs  of  illness,  are  claims  that  one  cannot  control,  that 
one  must  meet  with  a  smiling  and  unquestioning  face.  Their 
income  disappeared  as  a  little  rivulet  that  is  swallowed  by 
the  thirsty  ground.  He  worked  night  and  day  to  supple- 
ment it.  Soon  he  had  three  people  entirely  dependent  on  his 
exertions. 

Stella  was  thriving.  Every  day  she  grew  more  lusty. 
She  could  walk,  she  was  beginning  to  talk,  she  had  a  pro- 
digious appetite — all  was  well  with  their  little  Stella.  But 
her  mother  was  often  ailing.  It  seemed  as  if  a  reaction 
after  brave  effort  had  taken  away  her  vitality  and  nervous 
force.  She  was  courageous  as  ever,  not  shirking  labour,  but 
physically  incapable  of  undergoing  any  real  fatigue. 

And  a  further  calamity  befell  them.  Allan  Gates  was  ill. 
This  was  an  unkind  stroke  of  fate  that  had  never  for  a 
moment  been  apprehended.  For,  although  Allan  had  passed 
his  fiftieth  year,  although  his  dark  hair  had  turned  grey  and 
his  grizzled  beard  was  nearly  white,  one  had  continued  to 
think  of  him  as  a  man  of  whipcord  and  iron,  a  natural 
source  of  untiring  energy,  a  mechanism  that  could  not  wear 
out.  It  seemed  a  reversal  of  nature's  law,  the  end  of  the 
world  almost,  when  one  saw  him  cease  working.  He  had 
caught  a  chill  and  entirely  neglected  to  nurse  it.  That  was 
not  strange;  for  when  had  he  ever  taken  care  of  himself? 
Then  his  dear  old  face  became  yellow  with  jaundice,  and  he 
was  forced  to  take  to  his  bed.  He  lay  there  uncomplaining, 
burnt  up  by  fever,  but  never  delirious;  taking  jnedicine 
from  Churchill's  hand,  gratefully  thanking  him  for  his  min- 
istering care,  humbly  apologising  for  being  a  burden  and  a 
nuisance.  The  jaundice  passed,  but  left  him  weak  and  ex- 

407 


408  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

hausted.  Doctors  said  that  his  health  had  altogether  broken 
down. 

It  was  a  heavy  blow.  He  himself  confessed  at  last  that 
he  felt  done  for  and  fit  for  nothing.  While  he  lay  ill,  the 
vicar  of  St.  Peter's — in  spite  of  a  protest  from  Churchill — 
had  superseded  him  and  appointed  another  man  to  take  over 
his  curacy;  and  Allan  said  that  this  was  just  and  proper.  It 
would  have  been  no  good  for  the  vicar  to  wait  for  him;  he 
knew  himself  that  he  must  seek  for  some  easier  task. 

He  spoke  bravely — but  with  a  quiver  in  his  voice  that 
he  could  not  conceal — of  the  necessity  of  parting  company 
with  his  friend.  "Dear  old  boy,  if  I  don't  get  well  soon, 
there  must  be  no  nonsense  about  keeping  me  here.  You 
must  just  get  me  into  a  hospital — or  any  place  where  they'll 
take  me  without  payment.  I  am  not  going  to  hang  upon 
your  hands." 

"Allan,  don't  be  unkind.  Have  you  forgotten  what  you 
did  for  Lilian  and  me? — and  I  let  you  do  it.  I  took 
everything  from  you  without  question." 

"But  that  was  all  different.  You  have  your  duty  to 
Lilian  and  Stella — a  sacred  duty.  Dear  old  boy,  be 
reasonable.  You  can't  carry  all  the  world  on  your  shoulders." 

"I  can  carry  you,  Allan,  without  feeling  your  weight — 
and  I  am  never  going  to  put  you  down,  until  you  can  walk 
on  your  own  strong  legs.  Then  you  shall  carry  me  again,  if 
you  like ;"  and  he  smiled,  and  patted  Allan's  shoulder.  Never 
had  his  love  for  Allan  been  so  strong  as  now,  when  sorrow 
and  tenderness  were  blended  with  it.  He  spoke  always 
cheerfully  of  their  future,  telling  Allan  that  this  was  just 
a  rest  cure,  and  that  if  he  gave  himself  a  little  more  time 
and  did  not  worry,  he  would  be  restored  to  his  full  vigour. 

"If  God  will  grant  me  strength  just  to  earn  my  daily 
bread,"  said  Allan,  "I  shall  be  content.  I  ask  for  no  more." 

The  winter  was  severe,  and  till  February  Allan  remained 
in  the  house  as  "a  useless  invalid."  This  was  his  own 
phrase.  He  fretted  at  his  helplessness,  he  longed  to  relieve 
Churchill  of  the  cost  of  maintaining  him.  Then  the  doctor 
let  him  go  out — to  look  for  work.  He  was  certainly  better. 
He  was  as  well  perhaps  as  he  would  ever  be  in  this  climate. 
The  doctor  said  that  England  was  not  the  right  place  for 
him.  It  would  do  perhaps  in  the  summer,  if  one  moved  him 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  409 

to  softer  and  purer  air,  but  another  English  winter  might 
polish  him  off. 

And  then  Edward  bestirred  himself  in  earnest.  He  was 
not  good  at  asking  favours  for  himself,  but  he  proved 
importunate  on  behalf  of  his  friend.  He  wrote  letters,  he 
had  interviews  with  local  magnates,  he  waited  on  doorsteps 
and  would  not  be  turned  away  from  closed  doors.  Allan 
Gates  must  be  taken  out  of  England  and  established  in  a 
kinder  climate.  He  had  worked  long  and  loyally  for  Danes- 
borough,  and  now  the  town  should  do  something  for  a  faith- 
ful servant.  But  the  town  could  not  be  roused  to  enthusiasm 
concerning  the  case  of  Mr.  Gates.  This  seemed  to  be  purely 
a  church  matter.  Surely  there  were  special  ecclesiastical 
funds  to  meet  such  emergencies?  The  Corporation  looked 
after  their  own  people,  and  would  not  dream  of  asking  help 
from  the  clergy  if  they  wished  to  pension  one  of  their  dust- 
men or  firemen.  Then  why  ask  help  from  them?  Danes- 
borough  suggested  that  Churchill  should  try  London. 

He  was,  in  fact,  trying  London  already,  and  as  yet  with- 
out any  successful  results.  But  there  was  one  citizen  of 
Danesborough  of  a  metal  very  different  from  the  compo- 
sition of  the  rest.  This  was  Mr.  Raymond.  He  gave 
Churchill  time,  thought,  and  counsel.  He  took  Churchill 
with  him  to  London;  and  it  was  probably  due  to  his  in- 
fluence and  active  aid  that  Churchill's  efforts  at  last  met 
with  success. 

One  night  late  in  March,  Churchill  came  back  to  Danes- 
borough  with  the  splendid  piece  of  news.  He  had  obtained 
for  Allan  the  post  of  English  Chaplain  at  a  place  in  Italy — 
on  the  shore  of  Lake  Como — stipend  or  remuneration  sixty 
pounds  per  annum.  Allan  must  be  taken  at  once  to  London, 
to  meet  the  gentlemen  who  have  promised  this  appoint- 
ment; there  is  no  doubt  that  these  people  will  fall  in  love 
with  Allan,  and  ratify  the  treaty.  And  all  of  them— Ed- 
ward, Lilian,  and  the  child — will  go  with  him  to  Italy. 
They  will  pool  their  resources.  Sixty  pounds  a  year  added 
to  two  hundred  will  be  more  than  enough.  Life  is  so  cheap 
in  Italy — they  will  feel  rich  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice. 

Italy!  They  echoed  the  word,  and  it  sounded  to  them  a 
word  of  magic.  A  quite  extraordinary  hopefulness  came  to 
them.  Italy — the  mere  thought  of  it  made  Allan  almost 


410  (THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

strong  again.  Everything  will  be  easy  for  everybody  in 
Italy.  The  gentle  climate  is  as  much  needed  by  Lilian, 
perhaps,  as  by  Allan.  It  will  make  their  child  bloom  like  a 
flower.  Edward  will  be  happy  there. 

Three  weeks  later  they  said  good-bye  to  England.  They 
travelled  straight  through  to  their  destination,  and  the  whole 
world  seemed  to  be  sliding  past  the  windows  of  the  train. 
Allan  showed  no  fatigue;  and  since  Stella  appeared  to  be 
thoroughly  enjoying  the  long  journey,  Lilian  could  also 
enjoy  it.  Edward,  cheerful,  watchful,  the  guide  and  guard- 
ian of  the  little  band,  felt  a  calmer  confidence  in  fate  than 
he  had  ever  yet  attained;  so  that,  as  he  looked  out  at  the 
vague,  changing  landscape,  he  felt  that  nothing  would  now 
come  into  their  lives  to  disturb  them.  It  had  been  raining 
in  London :  it  was  raining  at  Lucerne,  and  a  white  mist  hid 
the  lake.  The  air  struck  coldly  and  the  clouds  hung  low 
above  their  heads,  as  they  walked  up  and  down  the  platform 
of  the  mountain  station  at  the  entrance  of  that  small  hole  in 
the  stupendous  Alpine  wall  which  is  named  the  St.  Gotthard 
Tunnel. 

Lilian  always  remembered  the  journey,  and  the  coming 
through  the  Alps.  It  was  the  end  of  their  life-pilgrimage. 
They  left  sorrow  and  pain  behind  them,  and  came  out  into 
the  sunshine — into  the  promised  land — into  the  sunlit  realm 
of  happiness.  That  is  what  it  was  to  her  when  she  looked 
back  on  it,  always,  to  her  dying  day.  They  had  been  sorely 
tried ;  but  their  trials  were  done. 


LI 

ALLAN'S  church  stood  on  raised  ground  above  the  road- 
way just  beyond  the  last  of  the  big  hotels,  with  villa  gardens 
on  either  side  and  the  wooded  hills  behind.  It  had  been 
built  by  a  husband  as  a  memorial  to  the  wife  who  died  here 
on  the  shore  that  she  loved.  It  was  a  beautiful  little  church, 
lofty  and  narrow,  rich  with  coloured  marble  and  gold 
mosaic;  on  its  walls  were  sixteenth-century  pictures  in 
carved  frames,  the  work  of  pious  Italian  painters,  and  these 
were  reputed  to  be  of  great  value  and  interest,  well  worthy  of 
examination  by  tourists  staying  at  Menaggio  or  Cadenabbia. 
But  the  best  picture,  the  picture  that  Allan  never  grew 
tired  of,  was  the  large  one  in  the  frame  made  by  the 
opened  doors  facing  the  altar.  As  you  moved  down  the 
church,  it  grew  larger  and  more  splendid,  showing  you  the 
other  shore  and  the  wide  fair  lake  with  white  Bellaggio 
asleep  upon  its  bosom,  the  verdant  heights  of  Serbelloni, 
and  the  mountain  peaks  beyond,  all  glittering,  trembling, 
glowing  in  the  warm  transparent  air. 

You  came  out  of  the  church  into  this  fairyland  that 
stretched  to  right  and  left  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
bays  and  promontories,  castles  and  villages,  enchanted  gar- 
dens, grottos  of  sweet  flowers ;  and  earth,  sky,  and  water 
were  not  elements  apart,  but  seemed  to  blend  and  melt  one 
into  another  to  make  a  lovely  dream.  It  would  have  been 
pretty  if  you  had  come  down  from  heaven;  it  was  heaven 
itself  when  you  came  to  it  from  Danesborough. 

They  hired  a  small  stone  house,  very  plain  and  bare,  but 
with  warm  red  tiles  and  comfortable  broad  eaves,  and  what 
should  have  been  a  terraced  garden,  but  had  now  become  a 
thicket  of  tangled  vines.  The  little  place  had  been  the 
holiday  home  of  a  Milanese  tradesman,  but  he  used  it  no 
more  and  was  glad  to  let  it  with  the  furniture  it  contained  to 
any  one  who  would  take  it  off  his  hands  until  he  could  get  rid 
of  it  altogether.  The  vines  rose  in  terraces  behind  the  house, 
and  there  was  a  path  up  the  hill  that  led  to  a  barren  moun- 

411 


412  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

tain  ridge — a  stepped  path,  very  old  and  broken,  with  little 
white  shrines  for  the  Stations  of  the  Cross  at  intervals  all 
the  way  up  till  you  reached  the  Chapel  of  the  Crucifixion  on 
top  of  the  hill,  where  the  vines  or  olives  ceased  and  you 
came  out  among  rocks  and  sunshine  to  the  tracks  that  would 
take  you  across  the  ridge  to  farms  and  towns  and  markets 
on  another  lake.  And  up  the  steep  path  in  the  morning 
went  the  laden  mules  and  the  sad-eyed  men  and  girls,  with 
the  long  day's  toil  before  them;  and  down  the  path  at 
dusk  the  mules  came  light,  and  the  men  and  girls  gaily  sing- 
ing, when  the  day's  work  was  done.  These  were  emblems 
of  life  and  its  hard  road — what  the  evening  of  life  should 
be,  if  we  can  make  it  so. 

In  front  of  the  house  and  the  garden  was  the  dusty  road, 
and  on  the  other  side  of  the  road  there  was  a  private  har- 
bour. Between  the  roadway  and  the  harbour  there  were 
broken  iron  railings  and  the  remains  of  a  narrow  strip  of 
flower-beds,  with  yellow  roses  smothering  the  ruin  and  hid- 
ing all  the  gaps.  A  gate  stood  always  open,  and  naked- 
legged  children  played  upon  the  causeway  or  chased  the 
darting  lizards  that  were  scarcely  more  alive  and  quick  of 
movement  than  themselves.  The  harbour  had  solid  but 
dilapidated  stone  piers  and  steps,  with  fishermen's  boats 
snugly  riding  at  anchor  and  brown  fishing  nets  spread  out 
over  the  sunlit  stones.  On  the  far  end  of  one  pier  there 
was  a  wrought-iron  lamp-standard  with  a  bronze  effigy  of 
the  fishermen's  Madonna ;  and  at  night  barefoot  women  came 
carrying  a  lamp  and  put  it  in  the  socket  frame  on  top  of 
the  standard — a  little  twinkling  star  to  please  the  saint,  or 
a  guide  to  the  husbands  as  they  came  across  the  waters 
singing  in  the  darkness. 

Whether  the  harbour  might  be  private  or  not,  all  these 
humble  folk  had  made  themselves  at  home  there.  They 
showed  their  gleaming  teeth  in  a  friendly  smile  and  wel- 
comed the  newcomers,  who  indeed  had  no  wish  to  interfere 
with  either  their  usurped  rights  or  ancient  privileges. 

The  Churchills  loved  the  house  and  the  harbour  too. 
Wherever  they  looked  at  it,  on  land,  they  were  well  satis- 
fied. Only  when  you  went  out  on  the  water,  did  you  see 
something  to  make  you  uneasy.  Painted  on  the  outward 
wall  of  the  pier,  in  huge  red  letters  on  a  white  ground,  were 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  413 

the  ominous  words  that  said  the  property  was  for  sale. 
Every  one  on  passing  steamboats  could  read  the  words. 
This  was  their  only  fear — that  one  day  some  rich  man 
would  buy,  pull  down  the  house,  and  build  himself  a  gor- 
geous villa  on  its  site. 

The  glorious  spring,  summer,  and  autumn  unfolded  them- 
selves, and  peace  filled  their  hearts.  Who  would  not  be 
contented  here?  Lilian  and  her  little  girl  were  healthy, 
happy.  Allan,  absolutely  fit  again,  was  Allan  of  the  Happy 
Valley.  He  liked  his  churchwardens,  the  two  trustees  of 
the  memorial  fund — one  of  them  lived  in  a  villa  at  Tremezzo, 
and  the  other,  who  had  seen  him  in  London  and  confirmed 
his  appointment,  came  out  every  autumn.  Both  these  men 
liked  Allan,  already  trusted  him.  Everybody  took  to  him. 
He  passed  from  one  hotel  to  another,  went  up  in  lifts  to  see 
solitary  old  ladies  on  the  top  floor,  or  sat  in  the  hall  sur- 
rounded by  fashionably  dressed  young  people,  or  ran  down 
to  the  couriers'  room  to  chat  with  ladies'-maids  and  valets ; 
he  was  here,  there,  and  everywhere.  He  knew  all  the  world 
— the  hotel-keepers,  the  regular  visitors,  the  resident  English 
colony.  He  was  pleasantly  busy  all  the  week ;  and  on  Sun- 
days he  could  produce  any  number  of  travelling  clergymen 
to  lend  him  a  hand  at  his  real  work,  if  he  ever  wanted  help. 
But  truly  the  work  of  a  chaplain  here  was  child's  play.  He 
had  time  and  to  spare  for  carpentry  and  gardening ;  he  took 
long  walks  of  exploration  with  Churchill ;  and  they  both  used 
to  row  manfully  upon  the  lake  in  a  vast  peasants'  boat  that 
had  its  own  peculiar  pace  which  no  power  could  hasten. 
A  child  paddling  a  scull  from  the  stern  could  make  it  go 
its  pace;  two  struggling  oarsmen  could  not  make  it  go 
faster. 

Churchill  was  writing  again,  and  the  delight  of  this  occu- 
pation was  very  great.  Nothing  now  prevented  him  from 
indulging  his  own  taste  and  fancy ;  no  rude  shocks  or  sud- 
den calls  jerked  the  pen  out  of  his  hand  or  made  him  feel 
that  the  solace  of  imaginative  wanderings  was  paid  for  by 
neglect  of  duties  at  his  door.  He  wove  a  small  world  of 
fiction,  entered  freely  into  it,  was  happy  there.  He  was 
writing  a  long  novel  every  page  of  which  interested  him 
enormously,  and  he  scarcely  troubled  himself  to  wonder  if 
anybody  else  would  ever  find  interest  in  it.  Then  directly  he 


414  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

had  finished  the  book  he  became  feverishly  anxious  to  see 
it  in  print.  This  is  a  fever,  often  unexpected,  that  every 
incipient  author  feels.  The  pleasure  of  writing  is  so  great 
that  it  should  be  its  own  reward ;  and  yet  one  cannot  write 
at  all  without  the  firm  hope  of  having  readers.  Churchill 
did  not  know  how  strong  the  hope  had  been  until  he  put 
his  work  into  the  hands  of  the  first  reader  available,  Allan 
Gates. 

Allan  was  at  first  shocked  by  the  novel.  It  dealt  boldly 
with  such  delicate  subjects;  it  was  so  different  from  the 
mirth-provoking  sixpenny  tales  that  he  had  always  consid- 
ered to  be  the  correct  thing  in  novels.  After  reading  about 
a  quarter  of  it,  he  let  Churchill  see  his  doubt  and  disapproval. 

"Allan,"  said  Churchill,  sadly  but  stoutly,  "if  there  is 
anything  in  it  that  would  give  you  pain,  I'll  abandon  the 
idea." 

"I  know  you  would,"  said  Allan  cheerfully.  "But  let 
me  finish  it  all  before  I  say  anything  more." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Churchill,  with  eagerness.  "Do  finish 
it." 

"I  will,  dear  old  boy,"  said  Allan,  tying  a  tape  about  the 
manuscript  sheets  and  putting  the  bundle  under  his  arm; 
"but  not  now.  I  will  get  on  with  it  in  the  evenings.  It  is, 
of  course,  very  long,  isn't  it?" 

And  Churchill  experienced  further  new  sensations  that 
are  proper  to  a  young  author.  All  hope  ebbed  away  from 
him. 

"Dear  old  boy,"  said  Allan,  later  on,  "I  think  your 
industry  is  simply  wonderful — the  mere  manual  labour  of 
writing  all  this  must  have  been  enormous ;"  and  he  put  the 
manuscript  down  again.  "When  I  have  written  out  one  of 
my  sermons — and  that  only  means  twenty  small  sheets — 
my  hand  aches.  I  have  to  open  my  fingers  like  this."  Then 
reflectively  he  filled  a  pipe,  lit  it,  and  slowly  puffed.  "Now 
then,"  and  he  pulled  himself  together.  "I  am  really  going  to 
tackle  it.  I  like  it  better  as  it  goes  on,"  and  he  beamed  at 
Edward.  "I  feel  I'm  getting  into  it." 

Churchill  thought  that  if  by  some  queer  caprice  of  fortune 
a  book  of  his  were  ever  published,  he  would  not  watch  it 
being  read  by  anybody,  least  of  all  by  a  loved  friend.  The 
thing  was  too  painful :  it  was  torment. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  415 

But  at  long  last  Gates  finished  a  first  reading,  and  then, 
after  skimming  through  the  work  again,  he  gave  his  verdict 
and  pronounced  sentence. 

"It  is  a  noble  piece,"  he  said.  "There  is  nothing  but  good 
in  it.  Only  certain  passages  must  come  out.  I  will  show 
you  exactly — I  will  take  them  out  myself." 

Churchill,  radiant,  with  the  dead  weight  of  suspense  lifted, 
pleaded  for  the  condemned  passages.  In  his  revulsion  of 
feeling,  they  seemed  to  him  the  best  bits,  and  he  did  not 
see  how  they  could  possibly  offend.  But  Gates  was  granite  ; 
and  Churchill,  yielding  at  once,  said  "Out  they  go." 

It  was  dreadful  to  see — Gates  with  his  stubby  pencil, 
frowning  and  intent,  the  manuscript  quivering  beneath  his 
hands.  Churchill  stood  by,  like  a  nervous  mother  with  a 
child  in  the  dentist's  chair,  while  Gates  drew  his  darling's 
teeth  one  after  another. 

"Believe  me,"  said  Allan,  cheerily,  "it's  not  only  right, 
it's  an  improvement.  The  book  is  so  long  that  they  can't 
be  missed." 

Churchill  sent  the  mutilated  manuscript  to  Mr.  Raymond, 
who  in  his  turn  sent  it  to  a  literary  agent.  The  agent  without 
difficulty  made  a  fair  bargain  with  a  London  publisher,  and 
before  very  long  there  began  to  arrive  by  post  the  proof 
sheets  of  The  Rainbow  Garment,  "a  novel,  by  Edward 
Churchill." 

It  was  published  in  the  winter  time,  and  Lilian  read  it  by 
her  own  fireside.  The  north  wind  was  sweeping  down  from 
the  blow-holes  of  the  Sphiigen,  making  the  snow-capped 
mountains  seem  to  be  cut  out  of  metal  against  the  purple 
sky,  changing  the  placid  lake  into  a  fierce  little  sea,  beating 
among  the  vines  and  sending  across  the  olive  woods  a  phiver 
of  grey  misery.  But  she  cared  nothing  for  the  world  or  the 
weather  outside  the  windows;  she  had  entered  the  world 
made  by  Edward  Churchill,  and  she  never  wished  to  leave 
it  again.  She  wept  in  delight  and  pride.  It  was  the  most 
wonderful  book  ever  written,  and  it  had  been  written  by 
him. 

The  author  himself  was  overwhelmed  by  the  fantastic 
character  of  the  reports  that  came  to  him  from  his  literary 
agent ;  yet  they  were  supported  by  masses  of  documentary 
evidence — newspapers  with  criticisms,  magazines  with  long 


416  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

articles,  publishers'  advertisements,  innumerable  letters  from 
strangers — and  so  one  had  to  believe  that  it  was  all  true. 
Hundreds  of  people  were  writing  to  the  Press  about  The 
Rainbow  Garment,  quarrelling  about  it,  getting  quite  hot 
about  it;  tens  of  thousands  were  reading  it,  talking  of  it, 
thinking  of  it;  its  publishers  had  but  one  trouble — they 
could  not  get  its  editions  printed  and  bound  quickly  enough. 
Its  success  was  of  the  full  and  immediate  kind  that  comes  at 
rare  intervals  to  a  hitherto  unknown  man.  Allan  Gates 
was  enraptured  and  abashed.  How  had  he  dared  to  touch 
such  a  masterpiece  with  the  censor's  pencil?  He  begged 
Edward  never  to  tell  any  one  what  he  had  done. 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  author,  smiling  happily;  "you 
knocked  it  into  shape  for  me.  I  can't  explain  its  success 
any  other  way." 

That  was  what  certain  critics  said — they  could  not  explain 
its  success.  But  readers  needed  no  explanation.  It  was 
different  from  other  books — it  had  something  lofty  and  fine 
in  it  that  was  not  quite  usual.  It  was  not  perhaps  much  of 
a  story,  and  it  was  certainly  very  long ;  but  through  it  there 
shone  a  steady  soul-radiance.  The  book  was  like  Edward 
Churchill.  You  only  had  to  know  it  well  enough,  to  love  it. 

And  Fate  began  strangely  to  pay  debts.  His  mother's 
husband  died  and  left  Churchill  all  his  money.  A  second 
and  a  third  novel  established  his  position  as  one  of  the 
most  widely  read  writers  of  the  age.  It  was  only  necessary 
to  amuse  himself  by  writing  in  order  to  gain  more  money, 
but  he  had  more  money  than  he  wanted  already. 

He  bought  the  house,  the  ground,  and  the  harbour.  He 
added  to  the  house,  doubled  it  in  size,  then  trebled  it.  He 
cleared  the  ground  and  constructed  a  terraced  garden,  with 
a  pergola  on  the  upper  terrace  where  they  used  to  have 
their  meals  throughout  the  warm  weather.  This  was  a 
labour  of  love,  for  Lilian;  it  was  her  garden.  She  had 
a  room  of  her  own  on  the  first  floor,  the  best  room  in  the 
house,  with  her  daughter's  room  adjoining,  and  a  loggia 
where  she  could  sit  and  look  down  into  her  garden  and 
watch  things  visibly  growing  under  her  eyes.  Gardening 
was  so  easy  now;  you  had  but  to  wish,  and  Italy  did  the 
rest.  Each  twig  that  you  put  into  the  ground  would  become 
the  tree  that  you  asked  for — myrtles  and  citrons,  fuchsias 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  417 

and  Banksia  roses,  oleanders  and  daturas,  the  things  whose 
very  names  are  pretty  to  say,  the  things  that  in  England 
have  a  sound  of  rareness  and  unattainable  beauty,  all  grew 
with  a  swift,  almost  a  fierce  profusion.  Churchill  and 
Allan,  working  with  the  stonemasons  and  labourers,  seemed 
to  be  chased  and  overtaken  by  the  flowers  themselves.  The 
roses  could  not  wait  for  the  brick  columns  and  wooden 
beams  that  were  to  carry  them;  such  common  thrusting 
things  as  clematis  and  wistaria  seized  upon  half  finished 
balustrades  and  ran  their  tendrils  into  each  crevice  of  soft 
mortar. 

For  Allan  good  useful  rooms  had  been  arranged  by 
Churchill  and  his  clever  architect  from  Milan.  They  had 
a  separate  entrance  to  the  road,  and  Churchill  made  them 
like  an  English  country  vicarage,  just  in  the  style  that  suited 
Allan.  The  harbour  was  repaired,  and  they  had  boats  of 
their  own — a  fishing-boat  for  Allan,  and  a  gig  with  cush- 
ioned seats  and  brightly-coloured  hood  that  was  the  family 
carriage.  At  the  touch  of  a  pair  of  sculls  it  glided  away,  and 
when  the  two  boatmen  sculled  together  it  shot  across  the 
lake  and  distanced  all  competitors.  They  had  two  boatmen 
of  their  own,  smiling  giants  in  red  sashes  and  blue  shirts ; 
but  for  the  most  part  Allan  and  Churchill  did  the  rowing. 
Allan  was  so  completely  restored  to  his  old  strength  that 
nothing  tired  him;  and  their  private  boatmen  had  employ- 
ment outside  of  the  boats — they  were  footmen,  housemaids, 
charwomen,  as  well  as  being  boatmen.  A  gardener  and  his 
wife,  who  did  the  cooking  with  a  maid  to  help  her,  were 
also  native  lake-dwellers ;  another  maid  and  the  governess 
came  from  England ;  and  the  rest  of  the  household  was  not 
permanent,  but  just  a  changing  population  that  consisted  of 
other  governesses  temporarily  out  of  employment,  poor 
young  ladies  discovered  by  Lilian,  anybody  known  to  Allan 
for  whom  a  holiday  without  a  hotel  bill  would  be  like  a  gift 
from  the  fairies.  And  more  or  less  dependent  on  the 
household,  were  the  people  of  the  harbour,  who  formed  a 
sort  of  faithful  clan  and  were  very  particular  that  no  out- 
siders encroached  upon  their  province. 

Truly  fate  had  guided  them  to  the  place  of  peace. 
Churchill  would  still  have  given  all — but  there  was  no  one 
outside  his  home  to  give  to.  He  offered  his  earnings,  without 


418  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

stint,  to  Allan.  But  Allan  could  not  spend  wisely,  and  he 
would  not  spend  in  any  other  way.  There  was  no  misery, 
no  real  want,  no  regular  claimants  for  charitable  doles. 
Allan  saw  clearly  that  to  shower  money  on  these  peasants 
would  be  wrong.  They  were  happy  now.  Money  would 
upset  them,  spoil  them.  In  fact,  the  unconsidered  largesse 
that  poured  from  the  villas  and  the  tourist  crowd  had  pat- 
ently a  depraving  influence — making  the  industrious  idle  and 
the  guileless  greedy.  Now  and  then  one  could  find  a  case 
where  with  caution  one  might  play  providence — marriage 
dowry  for  a  girl,  new  boat  for  a  fisherman,  school  fees  for 
a  clever  boy ; — but  the  amount  was  small,  the  opportunity 
rare.  There  were  the  beggars,  of  course,  hovering  about 
every  steamboat  pier,  infesting  every  sunlit  piazza,  lurking 
beneath  every  cool  colonnade ;  but  to  these  a  few  coins  and 
no  more  might  be  given,  or  they  would  get  drunk,  fight,  and 
fall  into  the  lake.  Allan's  congregation  were  rich  English. 
All  other  congregations  belonged  to  the  Roman  Catholic 
priests,  who  lived  in  great  amity  with  this  heretic,  and 
would  take  for  their  sick — but  they  must  not  take  too  much, 
as  Allan  saw,  or  you  would  spoil  the  priests  themselves. 
Italy  is  not  England. 

For  Allan  duty  had  become  a  sort  of  playing  at  church 
and  at  life,  as  of  a  happy  child,  with  no  real  toil  or  sorrow 
in  it.  But  he  was  satisfied,  easy  of  conscience.  There 
could  be  no  harm  now  in  accepting  what  God  granted. 
This  was  his  reward,  and  he  received  it  here  below — a  fore- 
taste of  heaven.  Perhaps  he  felt  he  had  earned  his  reward. 
God's  will  be  done.  It  could  not  be  meant  that  he  should 
pack  up  his  traps,  go  back  to  the  northern  slums,  and  carry- 
Edward  Churchill's  money  to  spend  it  there. 

Edward  Churchill  for  his  part  was  content,  without  re- 
morse or  self -questioning.  Contentment  was  logically  de- 
manded by  his  favourite  theory.  Do  the  thing  nearest  your 
hand — answer  the  call — give  all.  But  if  there  is  nothing 
to  do,  no  call  to  answer,  be  at  peace.  He  suffered  no  pangs 
because  men  and  women  in  London,  or  Leeds,  or  New  York 
were  suffering.  His  place  was  here — not  there. 

He  valued  money  only  for  the  pleasure  he  could  buy  with 
it  for  those  he  loved.  At  last  Lilian  could  have  all  the  pretty 
things  that  she  knew  how  to  make  still  prettier ;  she  had  a 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  419 

genius  for  decoration  and  adornment ;  and  every  one  of  those 
shopping  trips  to  Exeter  that  she  had  renounced  without 
complaint  was  made  good  to  her  now  a  thousandfold.  He 
used  to  urge  her  to  go  to  Milan,  or  to  Paris  if  she  preferred 
it,  to  get  herself  more  new  dresses,  more  new  hats ;  and  yet 
he  always  liked  to  see  her  in  the  garments  he  knew  best. 

"Why  don't  you  ever  wear  that  lovely  fawn-coloured  dress 
that  I  admire  so  much  ?"  he  would  ask  her. 

"My  dear,"  she  answered,  with  a  laugh,  "I  wore  it  for  four 
years.  Wasn't  that  long  enough?  Stella  said  it  was  too 
faded  and  shabby  for  her  to  be  seen  about  with  me  in  it." 

He  neither  counted  money  nor  measured  time:  he  was 
happy  in  the  passing  hours.  Only  the  disappearance  of  an 
admired  frock;  the  fact  that  Stella  did  not  ride  in  a  per- 
ambulator, but  went  out  fishing  with  Gates  and  came  down 
to  late  dinner;  the  list  of  his  books  in  a  publisher's  adver- 
tisement— only  such  reminders  as  these  told  him  that  years 
had  added  themselves  to  years,  that  the  sum  of  life  was 
bigger. 

His  fame  was  always  growing.  He  wrote  to  please  him- 
self, but  what  he  wrote  never  failed  to  please  the  public.  He 
wrote  fables  of  the  people,  and  his  fables  were  more  popular 
than  his  novels ;  he  wrote  volumes  of  short  stories,  and  the 
public  even  allowed  him  to  do  that ;  translations  of  his  books 
made  him  known  throughout  Europe.  Because  of  his  books 
half  the  world  honoured  and  respected  him.  He  was,  locally, 
a  celebrated  feature  of  the  lake,  shown  by  fly-drivers,  pointed 
at  from  steamer  decks,  photographed  behind  his  back  by 
everybody  old  enough  to  hold  a  camera.  He  was  beloved  by 
all  the  peasants  and  the  boatmen,  who  cared  nothing  for 
Churchill  the  writer,  but  were  very  glad  to  talk  about 
Churchill  the  man.  When  questioned  concerning  his  books, 
they  shook  their  heads  and  laughed.  Not  much  of  readers — 
but  Signer  Churchill  was  a  grand  signor  and  a  good  friend. 
He  paid  for  the  defence  of  Luigi  and  Antonio  there,  wrongly 
accused  of  smuggling.  He  gave  the  cow  to  Giulio's  nephew. 
He  was  out  on  the  mountain  all  night  with  the  rest  when 
little  Vittoria  and  her  mule  got  lost  in  the  winter  fog. 


LII 

As  soon  as  Stella  was  old  enough  they  did  a  little  travel- 
ling. By  the  terms  of  his  appointment,  Allan  Gates  was  free 
to  be  away  from  the  middle  of  November  to  the  end  of 
March,  because  during  this  period  there  were  scarcely  any 
English  left  on  the  lake.  Nevertheless,  he  regularly  con- 
tinued his  Sunday  services,  sometimes  with  a  congregation 
of  only  three  persons — Lilian,  Stella,  and  her  governess. 
But  on  two  or  three  occasions  he  was  persuaded  to  join  the 
Churchills  in  a  winter  jaunt. 

They  went  up  to  the  snowfields  of  the  Engadine,  but  the 
keen  light  air  did  not  suit  Allan,  and  they  hurried  down 
again  to  the  plains  of  Lombardy.  Once  they  followed  the 
sea  coast  from  Toulon  to  Spezzia.  They  visited  Rome,  got 
as  far  south  as  Naples,  and  crossed  the  Straits  to  Sicily. 
Allan  grew  restive  in  the  true  atmosphere  of  Roman  Cathol- 
icism. It  was  too  grand  and  sleepy  for  him.  His  spirit 
was  oppressed  by  the  grey  old  towns,  and  the  mingled  gaudi- 
ness  and  squalor  of  the  churches.  The  priests  of  the  south, 
fat,  indolent,  with  wine-stained,  dirty  cassocks,  and  double 
chins  that  needed  shaving,  made  him  feel  irritation  and  con- 
tempt. The  splendid  old  religion  itself  seemed  to  him  really 
like  some  of  the  old  towers  and  palaces — a  grand  outward 
form  only ;  dust  pretending  to  be  stone,  still  standing  high 
and  awe-inspiring,  defying  the  centuries ;  the  work  of  man 
pretending  to  be  solid  and  permanent  as  the  work  of  God. 
These  churches  and  castles  seemed  to  speak  with  the  very 
voice  of  Rome,  saying  they  would  last  as  long  as  the  hills 
they  crowned,  yet  all  of  them  ready  at  a  touch  to  fall  into 
a  cloud  of  white  dust. 

Stella  enjoyed  these  wanderings,  but  she  as  well  as  the 
others  liked  their  home  best.  She  adored  her  father.  At 
first,  perhaps,  Gates  ran  him  hard  in  the  race  for  her  favour, 
but  soon  Daddy  won.  Daddy  could  not  carpenter  or  make 
toys,  and  his  rooms  were  less  interesting  to  explore ;  but  he 
told  one  curious  things,  he  could  look  into  one's  mind  and 

420 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  421 

formulate  the  questions  that  one  did  not  know  how  to  ex- 
press. And  he  could  answer  them,  every  one.  When  he 
read  aloud,  fairy  stories  became  true,  not  stories  that  didn't 
really  happen ;  and  when  he  came  to  the  end — the  end  that 
one  knew  by  heart — he  could  go  on  reading,  saying  what 
occurred  after  the  princess  was  happily  married,  all  about 
her  children  and  their  names,  and  how  after  a  time  they 
found  the  palace  so  dull  that  they  left  it  one  night  to  search 
for  the  fairy  that  had  formerly  befriended  their  father  and 
mother.  And  all  this  sequel  wasn't  in  the  book  at  all ;  it  came 
straight  out  of  Daddy's  head,  and  nobody  else  could  read  it 
aloud  to  you. 

By  the  time  that  she  was  ten  years  old  they  had  become 
real  companions.  They  understood  each  other.  You  had 
but  to  see  them  together  to  know  how  close  was  the  bond  of 
love.  As  they  walked  hand  in  hand  about  the  garden,  he  no 
longer  discussed  such  fabulous  topics  as  the  bears  of  Monte 
Legnoncino,  or  explained  why  the  lake  was  as  deep  as  the 
mountains  were  high,  or  why  the  unhappy  village  of  Lez- 
zeno  had  been  put  into  disgrace  and  deprived  of  the  sun  in 
winter  and  the  moon  in  summer ;  but  they  talked  freely  of 
abstract  matters,  as  freely  and  as  simply  as  if  he  and  she 
were  of  the  same  age.  He  loved  these  walks  and  talks  as 
much  as  she  did.  He  did  not  try  to  teach  her  anything  then 
or  later,  unless  it  was  by  leading  her  from  external  wonders 
towards  the  deep  comfort  of  the  inner  life.  He  had  no  fear 
for  her.  Already  she  seemed  to  him  calm  and  true  and 
strong. 

They  had  innocent  secrets  that  nobody  else  knew  of.  Once 
in  the  summer,  when  the  moon  was  at  the  full,  he  told  her 
that  he  was  going  out  at  night  to  climb  the  high  hill  behind 
Griante  to  watch  the  sunrise  from  its  summit ;  and  she  said 
she  would  be  in  their  garden  at  dawn,  standing  on  the  upper 
terrace,  and  kiss  her  hand  to  him.  She  would  do  this  at  a 
certain  minute,  and  at  that  exact  minute  he  was  to  look  down 
from  the  mountain.  She  insisted  on  this ;  she  promised  to 
wrap  up  properly,  and  go  back  to  bed  afterwards.  So  they 
carefully  synchronised  their  watches,  and  decided  on  the 
appointed  minute. 

"At  three-forty,  Daddy.  Remember,  you  are  to  look 
straight  down  towards  me;  and  you  will  feel  that  I  have 


422  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

flown  up  through  the  air  and  kissed  you.  You  promise  you 
won't  forget?" 

"I  won't  forget.  But  I  hope  that  instead  of  waking,  you'll 
stay  snug  in  bed." 

He  was  back  for  breakfast,  and  he  said,  "Thank  you, 
Stella,  for  saying  good-morning  to  me  so  nicely." 

"You  couldn't  see  me,  of  course  ?" 

"No,  but  I  knew  that  you  were  there." 

"Did  you  feel  what  I  said?" 

"Yes,  my  darling,  I  felt  that,  and  much  more  than  you 
said." 

The  others  did  not  know  what  they  were  talking  about. 
It  was  one  of  their  secrets.  Perhaps  she  had  secrets  of  her 
own  that  she  could  not  share  with  him.  She  knew  that  there 
was  something  in  her  father's  life  because  of  which  the  world 
at  one  time  had  been  unkind  to  him,  and  the  thought  of  this 
made  her  feel  a  passionate  longing  to  guard  and  protect  him 
from  the  slightest  touch  of  pain.  This  shadow  of  past 
trouble  fell  upon  her  faintly  but  coldly  in  the  midst  of  sun- 
light. He  was  grand  and  famous  now,  and  yet  the  vague 
cloud  still  remained  upon  his  name.  People  were  always 
praising  him ;  and  yet  she  could  detect  now  and  then  a  reser- 
vation in  their  praise  that  wounded  her  young  pride  and 
stabbed  her  loyal  young  heart. 

He  and  she  never  spoke  of  religion.  He  had  prepared 
himself  for  the  sort  of  questions  that  children  usually  ask ; 
but  she  never  asked  them.  Had  she  been  warned  not  to  do 
so  by  her  mother  ?  He  did  not  know ;  he  did  not  inquire. 
She  had,  of  course,  been  brought  up  in  the  orthodox  faith. 
Allan  Gates  prepared  her  and  some  other  English  girls  for 
confirmation,  and  in  due  course  she  was  confirmed  by  the 
Bishop  of  West  Europe  on  one  of  his  enormous  pastoral 
tours. 

Her  father  went  to  church  with  her  on  the  Sunday  after 
she  had  taken  her  first  communion.  He  used  to  attend  the 
morning  service  perhaps  twice  a  year,  for  the  pleasure  of 
sitting  with  his  wife  and  daughter,  and  in  order  to  be  able  to 
pay  his  friend  compliments  about  the  sermon. 

His  compliments  were  precious  because  he  never  said 
what  he  did  not  mean — whether  to  Gates,  to  his  wife,  or  his 
child.  Love  has  no  limits.  T  nve  made  Gates  a  really  good 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  423 

preacher  to  Edward  Churchill,  even  if  he  remained  merely 
a  fervent  but  poor  performer  to  all  the  rest  of  the  world. 

When  he  told  Lilian  that  she  looked  as  young  as  ever,  she 
knew  that  it  was  not  true,  but  she  knew  that  he  believed  it ; 
and  that  was  enough.  If  she  had  ever  suffered,  as  women 
are  supposed  to  suffer,  in  thinking  of  the  time  when  the 
signs  of  age  would  fall  upon  her  and  her  charm  be  lost,  she 
suffered  no  longer.  He  had  always  answered  that  he  could 
see  no  change  in  her.  If  she  said  it  was  absurd  to  talk  like 
that,  he  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  He  did  not  really  see 
that  she  was  different  in  any  outward  respect  from  the  girl 
who  had  come  to  him  through  darkness  and  pain,  and  with 
her  hand  in  his  had  led  him  back  to  the  light.  He  would 
never  see.  Love  conquers  all  things — even  the  years. 

He  said,  and  believed,  "You  are  more  beautiful  than  you 
were — if,  indeed,  there  is  any  difference."  And  if  she 
argued,  he  chaffed  her  about  Wheeler's  famous  article  in  the 
Universal  Magazine.  "Mr.  Wheeler  said  more  than  I  have 
done.  I'll  fetch  it  out.  You  had  better  read  it  again." 

Mr.  Wheeler  was  a  visitor  from  America,  and  he  had  writ- 
ten an  account  of  his  visit  to  the  villa  by  the  lake.  Churchill 
kept  and  treasured  his  copy  of  the  magazine  because  of  the 
sketch  of  Lilian. 

After  describing  "the  home  of  England's  greatest  fiction- 
ist,"  the  writer  said:  "Churchill  is  a  bigger  optimist  even 
than  his  books  would  lead  one  to  suppose.  His  is  an  opti- 
mism of  the  far-reaching,  all-embracing  character.  He  be- 
lieves in  the  future  of  the  human  race,  and  does  not  appear 
to  attach  any  weight  to  the  seeming  evils  of  the  hour.  For 
him  labour  troubles,  class  antagonisms,  war  itself  with  all 
its  unspeakable  horrors,  are  but  momentary  checks  to 
progress — they  are  like  small  impediments  to  the  flow  of  a 
river,  making  it  for  a  moment  change  its  direction,  only  to 
resume  it  when  the  obstacle  is  passed. 

.  .  .  "But  no  picture  of  Edward  Churchill  would  be  com- 
plete without  the  pendent  portrait  of  his  wife.  Mrs.  Church- 
ill is  a  beautiful  and  gracious  lady,  with  a  quiet  unaffected 
manner,  but  great  natural  dignity.  Tall  and  slender  in  figure, 
she  has  a  face  of  the  most  refined  English  type,  and  yet  which 
in  the  delicacy  of  the  features,  the  play  of  expression  and  the 
soft  lustrous  eyes,  recalls  the  beauty  of  some  of  our  own 


424  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

southern  women.  Both  she  and  her  husband,  one  may  add, 
are  distinctly  ww-English  in  their  absence  of  formality  and 
reserve.  The  kindly  welcome  that  they  accorded  to  me  as  a 
stranger,  with  no  better  credentials  than  the  fact  that  I  could 
claim  membership  of  the  brotherhood  of  literature,  impressed 
me  to  a  notable  degree." 

Touring  Americans  were  often  provided  with  letters  of 
introduction  to  Churchill  by  his  New  York  publishers,  and  he 
liked  these  perhaps  more  than  any  other  chance  visitors. 
They  were  so  fresh  and  original  when  compared  with  tired 
Londoners  saturated  with  other  people's  worn-out  thoughts 
and  without  a  thought  that  belonged  to  themselves;  so 
devoid  of  all  pretension;  so  free  from  the  ridiculous  self- 
consciousness  that  fears  to  betray  ignorance  of  matters  quite 
outside  one's  own  sphere  of  knowledge ;  so  full  of  humour, 
vital  energy,  and  intrinsic  kindliness.  He  liked  the  hard- 
faced  men  of  business  whose  words  snapped  like  steel 
springs  and  whose  hearts  were  like  the  hearts  of  little 
children.  They  sometimes  talked  as  though  the  world  was  a 
market-place  and  its  high  altar  a  stock  exchange,  pretending 
to  live  only  for  the  acquisition  of  hard  cash,  and  yet  perhaps 
ready  to  lay  down  life  for  an  idea.  He  seemed  to  trace  in 
the  men  and  women  alike  this  essential  desire  for  the  ideal 
and  the  willingness  to  stake  all  to  obtain  it,  and  he  won- 
dered if  destiny  would  ever  put  them  to  the  test. 

These  tourists  from  across  the  ocean  never  ran  the  risk 
of  outstaying  their  welcome :  without  exception,  they  were  all 
of  them  in  a  prodigious  hurry. 

"Now,  Mr.  Churchill,  we'd  just  love  to  stay  and  laze 
away  half  a  week  on  your  c?<?lightf  ul  lake ;  but  it  doesn't  seem 
quite  fair  to  cut  out  poor  old  Rome,  and  Venice,  and  the 
rest.  Rome's  had  to  wait  a  long  time  for  Mrs.  Binion  and 
myself,  and  I  guess  she'd  feel  tired  of  sitting  on  her  seven 
hills  if  we  disappointed  her." 

"Come  back  to  us  on  your  way  home." 

"No,  we  can't  do  that  anyhow.  We  aren't  retracing  our 
steps  this  trip.  Time  doesn't  permit.  But  we  shall  take 
home  a  vurry  pleasant  memory  of  this  afternoon,  and  of 
you  and  your  charming  wife  and  your  amiable  daughter." 

More  distinguished  and  less  hurried  representatives  of 
American  culture,  writers,  artists,  diplomatists,  came  with 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  425 

the  English  and  Continental  crowd  every  spring  and  autumn. 
It  was  a  cosmopolitan  society  in  which  sooner  or  later  every 
one  of  note  appeared.  Indeed  in  the  fashionable  seasons 
there  was  no  lack  of  varied  company  at  the  villa;  and  if 
Churchill  as  a  writer  needed  material  for  the  study  of  men 
and  women  of  the  world,  it  provided  itself  automatically  and 
unfailingly.  Politicians  or  statesmen,  successful  advocates 
or  great  lawyers,  smartly-dressed  women  or  grand  ladies, 
well-known  people  or  people  of  importance,  the  man  of  the 
hour  or  the  moulder  of  to-morrow — whichever  you  cared  to 
call  them — they  all  in  time  presented  themselves  on  the 
Churchills'  terrace,  to  drink  a  cup  of  tea  beneath  the  roses 
and  give  their  host  a  chance  of  seeing  their  outward  shapes 
and  reading  their  inward  mysteries. 

With  regard  to  the  most  famous  of  these  guests,  Stella 
and  Gates  nearly  always  said  the  same  thing. 

"He  is  not  a  bit  like  his  pictures  in  the  papers,"  said  Stella. 

And  Gates  said,  "How  easy  he  is  to  get  on  with !" 

The  great  men  were  always  easy  to  get  on  with.  They 
sank  into  their  basket-chairs,  drank  their  tea,  and  ate  their 
cake,  as  if  they  had  been  doing  so  yesterday,  the  day  before 
and  years  ago;  and  they  talked  to  Churchill  as  if  they  had 
known  him  all  their  lives.  When  the  rest  of  their  party  wan- 
dered off  about  the  garden,  they  still  sat  talking  with  him. 
When  their  boat  was  waiting  to  start  and  everybody  else  on 
board,  they  told  the  boat  to  go  without  them.  They  would 
walk  back  to  the  hotel  by  the  road — and  perhaps  Churchill 
would  stroll  a  little  way  with  them,  so  that  they  might  go 
on  talking. 

In  the  course  of  years  many  real  friends  dropped  in  on 
them — old  friends  discovered  unexpectedly  on  landing- 
stages,  who  were  at  once  made  to  move  their  baggage  from 
their  hotel,  and  put  up  at  the  villa.  Thus,  for  the  first  time, 
chance  brought  them  Prebendary  and  Mrs.  Verschoyle ;  and 
Canon  Nape  and  Monsignor  Gardiner,  sometime  curates  of 
St.  Bede's.  The  Verschoyles  came  nearly  every  autumn,  and 
no  other  friends  were  so  dear  to  them. 

Sometimes  there  surged  up  out  of  the  past  once  familiar 
faces  that  they  had  never  thought  of  or  missed.  In  this 
manner  suddenly  appeared  Mr.  Milton  Kirk  of  Danes- 
borough  and  his  secretary,  Miss  Jenkins.  Churchill  had  seen 


426  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

them  from  his  window  without  recognising  them,  as  they 
slowly  ascended  the  garden  steps  and  paused  to  take  breath 
on  each  terrace — a  small,  dapper  gentleman  in  a  yachting  suit 
and  cap,  with  field-glasses  swung  over  his  arm ;  and  a  gor- 
geously attired  mature  lady  with  a  mauve  parasol.  Now 
they  were  in  the  drawing-room  with  Lilian,  and  Stella  had 
been  sent  to  fetch  him.  He  put  down  his  pen  and  went  at 
once. 

Mr.  Kirk  was  standing  on  the  hearthrug  and  talking  vol- 
ubly, reminding  Lilian  of  how  he  had  not  only  been  the 
original  discoverer  of  Churchill's  talent,  but  its  careful 
trainer.  Mrs.  Kirk  sat  near,  admiring  him.  They  were 
much  grander-looking  than  of  old,  obviously  very  prosper- 
ous and  opulent. 

"How  is  Danesborough  ?"  asked  Churchill,  after  effusive 
hand-shakings. 

"Danesborough,"  said  Mr.  Kirk  impressively,  "is  making 
colossal  progress — going  slap  bang  ahead.  You  know  the 
saying,  'What  Manchester  thinks  to-day  London  thinks 
to-morrow?'  Well,  Danesborough  thinks  it  the  day  before 
Manchester." 

"And  are  you  still  working  for  The  Courier?" 

"I  AM  The  Courier;"  and  Mr.  Kirk  said  how  he  had 
bought  out  the  old  proprietary.  He  was  also  the  owner  of 
half  a  dozen  other  periodicals.  He  thought  no  more  of 
launching  a  new  paper  nowadays  than  of  having  his  break- 
fast. "But  I  did  not  come  here  to  talk  about  myself."  And 
he  spoke  again  of  his  cleverness  in  having  spotted  Churchill 
as  a  likely  winner  in  the  race  for  literary  fame. 

"Miss  Churchill,  the  'umble  individual  before  you  now 
was  your  papa's  first  patron.  Yes,  young  lady,  this  illus- 
trious author,  then  a  bashful  beginner,  used  to  bring  me  his 
immature  efforts,  and  we  put  our  heads  together  to  screw 
them  up  to  concert  pitch.  .  .  .  You  haven't  forgotten, 
have  you,  Churchill?  ...  I  said  to  my  wife  there,  'There's 
something  about  Churchill's  work  that  may  puzzle  many 
people,  but  it  doesn't  puzzle  me.  It  is  genius'  Yes,  I  said 
it  then,  un'esitatingly.  All  the  world  has  said  it  since." 

The  late  Miss  Jenkins  recalled  this  speech  of  her  hus- 
band's, and  said  he  had  quoted  his  very  words.  She  was 
grand,  with  her  white  frock,  high  heels,  and  delicate  mauve 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  427 

parasol.  She  had  jewelled  bangles,  and  a  little  watch  en- 
crusted with  diamonds,  the  tiny  dial  of  which  she  consulted 
presently. 

"Now,  Milton,"  she  said.  "Remember,  this  is  holiday 
time."  And  she  explained  that  she  wished  his  brain  to  rest 
as  much  as  possible.  The  strain  was  more  severe  than  ever. 

Obviously  she  was  very  well  pleased  with  herself ;  but  she 
worshipped  Mr.  Kirk,  and  would  always  take  the  greatest 
care  of  him. 

As  they  went  back  to  the  harbour  and  their  boat,  she 
spoke  kindly  and  confidentially  to  Lilian. 

"Aren't  your  husband's  books  splendid?  I  love  them. 
I  wonder  the  Government  hasn't  publicly  recognised  them." 

"How  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Lilian. 

"Why,  by  giving  him  a  knighthood  or  something.  They 
are  going  to  make  Milton  a  knight.  It  will  be  in  the  next 
Birthday  Honours.  .  .  .  What  a  world  it  is.  I  wonder 
what  I  should  have  said  if  the  fairies  had  told  me  that  one 
day  I  should  be  Lady  Milton  Kirk." 

When  they  reached  the  pier  Mr.  Kirk  had  still  much  to 
say  to  Churchill,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  Mrs.  Kirk 
embarked  him. 

"I  must  get  him  away,"  she  whispered.  "But  when  two 
old  cronies  get  together,  there's  no  separating  them." 

Churchill  begged  the  Kirks  to  come  to  dinner  any  day ;  but 
Mrs.  Kirk  refused  the  invitation.  Dinner  parties  excited 
Milton.  As  she  explained,  she  got  him  off  to  bed  imme- 
diately after  the  table-dliote.  He  had  half  a  bottle  of  light 
wine  at  dinner,  and  she  herself  brought  him  his  "night-cap" 
when  she  had  tucked  him  in.  "But  many  thanks,  all  the  same. 
It's  depriving  him  of  a  pleasure,  but  it's  for  his  own  good.  I 
think  his  brain  is  like  a  steam-engine:  it  is  always  working 
at  high  pressure." 

Mr.  Kirk  brandished  his  field-glasses  and  Mrs.  Kirk 
waved  her  parasol  as  the  boat  glided  away  with  them.  The 
Churchills  stood  at  the  end  of  the  pier  by  the  fishermen's 
shrine  till  the  boat  became  a  small  speck  on  the  broad  sur- 
face of  the  lake.  Then  they  went  back  to  the  house,  all  three 
together,  lingering  among  the  perfumed  shrubs,  turning  on 
terrace  steps  to  look  back  at  the  great  shadow  of  their  moun- 
tain as  it  crept  up  the  slope  on  the  other  shore  and  the  even- 


428  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

ing  sunlight  as  it  began  to  glow  red  on  the  crest  of  the 
hills  above  Varenna.  Then  at  last  the  writer  returned  to  his 
desk  and  went  on  writing. 

Visitors  squandered  a  lot  of  his  time.  But  to  all  he  was 
courteous  and  kind,  and  all  were  the  better  for  seeing  him. 
Something  he  gave  unconsciously,  something  they  took  away 
that  made  them  a  little  richer — the  prosperous  Kirks,  the 
successful  politicians,  the  tired  advocates,  the  expansive, 
warm-hearted  wanderers  from  the  great  Republic,  even  the 
pretty,  worldly  ladies  with  husbands  they  did  not  care  to 
show  and  lovers  they  could  not  contrive  to  hide.  It  was  the 
divine  gift  of  sympathy.  The  humble  people,  the  peasants, 
knew  what  it  was  well  enough,  and  came  for  it  without 
scruple  as  a  right — in  every  trouble ;  their  love  affairs,  their 
business  enterprises,  their  little  family  vendettas ;  their  hopes, 
their  fears,  their  crimes. 

He  would  lay  down  his  pen,  and  give  them  an  hour — a  day 
— two  days.  He  would  see  the  lawyers  for  them,  he  would 
go  to  Milan  for  them ;  there  was  nothing  that  he  would  not 
do  for  them. 

Lilian  and  Stella  tried  to  save  him  from  interruptions,  but 
in  vain.  He  would  not  be  the  guarded  prophet  or  the 
sheltered  muse.  He  worked  when  he  could.  Like  all 
authors,  he  had  his  favourite  hours,  when  his  pen  seemed  to 
run  easiest,  and  perhaps  his  best  and  most  cherished  time 
was  on  Sunday  mornings. 

The  church  bell  ceased  its  music;  his  ladies  with  their 
prayer  books  in  their  hands  had  just  passed  the  window,  and 
the  maids  were  hurrying  down  the  stairs ;  dear  old  Allan  was 
busily  engaged,  and  would  not  come  in  and  out  of  the  room 
for  a  couple  of  hours.  The  whole  house  fell  silent;  the 
Sabbath  hush  had  descended  on  land  and  water ;  not  a  mur- 
mur came  from  the  hillside,  not  a  rustle  from  the  lake.  He 
used  to  feel  that  he  was  absolutely  alone  with  his  work,  and 
the  pen  moved  faster  and  faster. 


LIII 

Ax  the  beginning  of  a  week  late  in  October  Allan  Gates 
fell  sick  with  influenza.  This  was  the  first  time  since  he  left 
England  that  there  had  been  anything  wrong  with  him.  On 
Monday  the  Italian  doctor  from  Tremezzo  ordered  him  to 
go  to  bed,  but  promised  that  he  would  be  on  his  legs  again 
by  Sunday.  Allan's  one  anxiety  was  about  the  Sunday  serv- 
ices. Although  at  this  late  period  of  the  year  very  few  Eng- 
lish were  still  here,  the  mere  thought  of  the  church  doors 
being  closed  against  them  sent  up  his  temperature  and  made 
him  toss  and  turn  in  bed.  Such  a  failure  would  spoil  his 
record  for  ever. 

On  Thursday,  when  he  should  have  been  allowed  to  get  up, 
he  was  still  held  prisoner  by  the  doctor,  and  he  judged  it 
prudent  to  ascertain  that  a  substitute  would  be  available,  if 
required,  to  take  his  place  on  Sunday.  During  the  regular 
season  the  shore  was  almost  black  with  parsons,  but  now  one 
would  not  have  so  wide  a  choice.  The  churchwardens  had 
already  departed.  Stella,  however,  sent  out  spying  for 
Allan,  brought  back  a  report  that  she  had  seen  four  black 
coats — the  one  at  the  "Britannia" ;  a  new  one  out  in  a  boat 
with  some  ladies;  and  other  two  sitting  in  the  hall  at  the 
"Bellevue."  Four  blackbirds,  not  likely  to  be  flown  before 
Sunday.  Allan  felt  reassured. 

On  Saturday  morning  he  got  up  without  permission,  and 
was  sitting  in  a  chair  when  the  doctor  came.  The  doctor  sent 
him  back  to  bed,  to  stay  there  till  further  orders.  Lilian  and 
Stella,  sent  forth  to  search,  found  the  four  birds  flown.  Not 
a  parson  left  on  the  shore.  All  day  long  they  telegraphed 
and  telephoned  here  and  there,  up  and  down  the  lake.  No 
parson  available.  No  service  to-morrow.  Allan  was  in 
despair.  He  lay  writhing  and  tossing,  saying  he  did  not  care 
what  his  temperature  might  be ;  he  would  be  up  to-morrow 
and  be  at  the  church  at  8  A.  M.,  if  he  could  stand. 

"What  is  it  at  eight  o'clock  ?"  asked  Churchill,  sitting  with 
him  in  the  evening.  "Communion  ?" 

429 


430  THE  MIRROR  AND!  THE  LAMP 

"No,  only  Matins — chiefly  for  the  English  waiters  and  the 
clerk  from  the  'Bellevue.'  " 

"And  what  is  it  at  eleven  o'clock  ?" 

"Morning  Prayer  and  Litany." 

"Allan,  I'll  do  the  services  for  you,"  said  Churchill. 

Allan  looked  at  him,  gave  a  gasp,  and  then  sank  back  in 
bed,  perspiring,  joyful.  "God  bless  you,  dear  old  fellow! 
Oh,  God  bless  you  1" 

The  fervent  gratitude  of  Allan's  tone,  his  extreme  emo- 
tion, his  gasp  or  cry  of  joy  on  hearing  his  friend's  words, 
startled  Churchill.  It  had  seemed  to  him  such  a  small  thing 
to  say.  Why  should  it  seem  so  much  to  Allan?  Churchill 
had  spoken  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  without  thought 
or  doubt.  His  friend  wanted  something  done,  and  he  could 
do  it.  It  was  nothing  for  him  to  do.  Of  course  he  must  do 
it.  It  was  a  call  that  he  had  answered  automatically. 

"Now  settle  down,"  he  said,  "and  get  to  sleep." 

"Yes,  I  shall  sleep  to-night,"  said  Allan,  in  the  same  joyful 
tone. 

Churchill  going,  put  his  head  back  into  the  room  to  ask 
if  he  should  find  a  surplice  and  everything  else  at  the  church. 

"Yes,  dear  old  fellow.    I  have  given  Lilian  the  keys." 

"That'll  be  all  right  then,"  said  Churchill. 

But  a  little  later  Lilian  came  to  him,  with  shining  eyes  and 
lips  trembling. 

"Allan  has  told  me.  Oh,  Edward,  does  this  mean — oh, 
let  me  know  what  it  means." 

"My  dearest,"  he  said,  rather  blankly,  "it  means  nothing ;" 
and  he  took  her  hands  and  pressed  them  gently.  "Dear  old 
Allan  was  in  a  hole — so  I  offered  to  do  it  for  once.  But  I 
hope  you  don't  think  it  is  wrong.  Allan  did  not.  It  is  only 
for  this  once — to  make  him  easy." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "you  have  made  Allan  easy;"  and  she 
released  her  hands,  and  turned  away. 

"Lilian,  I  hadn't  thought  of  my  position — as  a  priest  who 
had  been  inhibited.  I  hadn't  thought  of  myself  at  all — except 
that  I  should  be  able  to  get  through  the  services  all  right. 
But  if  you  feel  that  I  haven't  the  right  to  do  it — if  you  think 
it  wrong,  I  must  tell  him  I  can't  do  it." 

"No,"  she  said  sadly.  "I  don't  think  it  wrong.  I  could 
never  think  anything  you  did  was  wrong.  Only  it  set  me 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  431, 

thinking "  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "But  I  under- 
stand now." 

He  sat  meditating  after  she  had  gone. 

Was  it  wrong?  Surely  not.  All  that  episode  of  his 
quarrel  with  the  Church  and  the  manner  in  which  he  had 
left  it  seemed  so  immensely  remote.  It  was  like  something 
that  had  happened  in  the  life  of  another  man.  Who  else 
would  trouble  to  remember  it  ?  Who  would  know  or  care  ? 
No  one  here  would  wonder  about  it. 

He  had  not  thought  of  religion  in  regard  to  himself  since 
the  time  long  ago  when  his  child  recovered  from  her  dan- 
gerous illness.  He  had  determined  then  that  he  would  not 
think  of  these  things,  and  he  had  adhered  to  his  resolution. 
Nothing  in  the  happy  years  had  ever  revived  the  feelings  of 
that  period.  His  life  since  then  had  been  so  peaceful  and 
yet  so  full:  the  world  all  round  him  and  the  worlds  of  his 
imagination  had  been  all  sufficient  to  him. 

In  his  books  he  had  never  spoken  of  religion,  but  now  and 
then  the  public  Press  had  made  allusions  to  the  fact  of  his 
having  been  a  clergyman.  Critics  who  wished  to  appear 
knowing  sometimes  called  him  the  Reverend  Edward 
Churchill ;  critics  who  wished  to  be  nasty  had  not  scrupled 
to  call  him  an  infidel  and  an  atheist.  No  one  could  call  him 
a  materialist,  for  in  everything  that  he  had  ever  written  the 
triumph  of  spirit  over  matter  had  been  the  essential  idea 
conveyed;  but  it  was,  as  he  knew,  generally  assumed  both 
by  readers  and  by  critics  that  he  was  not  an  orthodox  be- 
liever. 

Suddenly,  and  for  a  few  moments,  it  seemed  a  queer  thing 
that  he  was  intending  to  do  now.  To  those  who  really  knew 
his  life-history,  this  act  might  seem  like  a  public  recantation. 
They  might  say  of  him,  "Edward  Churchill  has  recanted. 
He  has  stood  up  before  men  and  God,  and  owned  that  he 
was  at  fault,  and  they  were  right.  Yet  he  does  not  now 
really  believe.  Therefore  he  is  one  of  two  things :  a  liar  or 
a  hypocrite." 

But  in  another  moment  everything  dropped  into  its  proper 
place  and  took  its  old  proportional  value.  What  people  may 
think  about  him — and  they  won't  think — is  of  no  importance. 
It  is  utterly  trivial.  The  only  important  thing  was  to  serve 
his  friend.  He  would  have  gone  and  swept  out  stables, 


432  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

climbed  ladders  and  laid  bricks,  stood  on  the  high  road  and 
begged — done  his  friend's  task  for  him,  whatever  it  was, 
while  he  lay  sick. 

He  fetched  out  his  manuscript  notes  and  began  to  write. 
He  had  mortgaged  to-morrow  morning,  and  would  make  up 
for  lost  time  by  doing  a  little  work  to-night. 

Allan  slept  soundly,  and  was  still  asleep  when  Churchill 
went  out  to  do  the  first  service.  There  were  only  five  people 
in  the  church. 

There  were  more  people  at  eleven  o'clock,  perhaps  as  many 
as  thirty ;  and  he  conducted  the  service  beautifully,  without 
the  least  sign  of  embarrassment,  and  with  only  the  very 
slightest  emotional  feeling.  He  was  extremely  careful,  read- 
ing what  he  would  have  recited  from  memory  in  the  old  days, 
and  he  made  no  slips. 

Inwardly  and  outwardly  he  was  calm.  Strangers  in  the 
church  were  struck  by  his  outward  aspect,  and  saw  in  him  a 
faithful  carrier  of  the  divine  message.  He  stood  there,  tall 
and  thin,  his  hair  sleek  as  silk,  silver  grey ;  his  clean-shaven 
face,  darkened  by  the  Italian  sun,  like  a  beautiful  mask ;  the 
features  exquisitely  refined,  with  all  sensual  character  gone 
utterly,  and  yet  with  strength  remaining,  visibly  indicated  by 
the  frontal  ridge  and  the  firm  though  thin-lipped  mouth.  He 
looked  at  once  an  ideal  priest  and  an  intellectual  aristocrat. 
The  benign  light  of  all-embracing  love  was  in  his  eyes  when 
he  delivered  the  last  words. 

No  one  could  have  guessed.  From  the  moment  of  his 
first  kneeling,  till  now  as  he  stood  with  raised  hand  and  the 
sunlight  through  the  windows  crowning  him,  in  a  glory 
rather  than  a  petty  halo,  he  has  been  God's  perfect  mes- 
senger. Yet  he  felt  nothing  beyond  love  of  humanity.  If 
God  were  here,  in  this  little  church,  why  did  he  not  feel  the 
mysterious  presence  ?  Why  did  not  he  realise  that  he  was  no 
longer  alone  on  the  chancel  steps?  He  seemed  to  be  quite 
alone.  But  he  could  not  have  said,  even  in  thought,  "There 
is  nothing  here.  There  is  no  God.  There  never  was  a  God." 

These  others  believed.  All  can  believe,  except  himself. 
Looking  down  at  the  faces,  he  could  read  their  hearts.  In 
their  different  degrees  all  these  people  truly  believed.  There 
was  glorious  faith  here  and  there.  It  was  shining  clear  from 
his  wife  and  his  child — from  the  old  lady  in  the  second  pew 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  433 

— and  that  old  man — and  from  the  other  old  dame.  From 
the  others — if  not  the  perfect  untroubled  faith,  at  least  the 
yearning  for  it,  and  a  hope  that  will  bring  it ;  or,  at  the  low- 
est, the  firm  belief  that  this  life  is  a  prelude,  that  something 
larger  is  to  come.  And  who  but  a  fool  would  take  the  belief 
from  them?  Pity  and  love  filled  his  thought,  as  he  read 
these  few  hearts. 

For  some  it  is  not  perhaps  much ;  for  the  rest  it  is  every- 
thing. And  this  little  pause  in  the  quiet  church  is  good  for 
all.  Who  that  thinks  can  doubt  it?  If  it  were  only  to  tie 
the  tongue  for  an  hour  a  week,  it  were  worth  building 
churches  to  win  that  silence. 

After  the  blessing  he  made  a  slip,  forgetting  what  came 
next.  He  thought  it  was  all  over.  Instead  of  kneeling  in 
front  of  the  altar  and  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands,  he  sat 
down  in  the  big  chair  by  the  wall,  in  the  shadow,  with  hand 
on  elbow,  watching  the  congregation  go  out. 

He  thought  that  he  could  see  quite  plainly  the  good  of  it 
to  these  faithful  ones.  They  have  palpably  changed  be- 
neath his  watching  eyes.  The  old  lady  in  the  second  pew  is 
praying,  is  dreaming.  She  rises  from  her  knees,  and  it  is  as 
if  she  wraps  about  her  a  cloak  of  dignity  which  she  did  not 
wear  on  entering.  Her  face  is  grave  and  calm;  she  is  old 
and  fragile,  but  she  walks  more  strongly,  with  a  b/aver, 
nobler  carriage.  She  has  been  kneeling,  as  she  thinks,  at  the 
steps  of  a  throne,  and  has  heard  gracious  promises;  and 
something  of  Majesty  will  cling  to  her  for  a  little  while.  In 
imagination  he  follows  her  out  into  the  sunlight,  in  imagina- 
tion hears  her  voice.  She  has  neither  sought  nor  shunned 
her  friends  and  gently  she  resigns  herself  again  to  the 
babbling  untied  tongues ;  but  in  her  voice  and  eyes  there  is 
something  still  of  the  glory  of  her  dream.  Who  but  a  fool 
would  rob  her  of  the  dream? 

Allan  was  much  better  in  the  week,  and  all  right  by  Satur- 
day. But  he  asked  Edward  to  help  him  again.  It  is  Com- 
munion Sunday.  Allan  will  do  it  all  himself,  every  bit  of  it ; 
but  he  would  like  to  have  Edward  at  his  side,  in  case  of  fail- 
ure. Edward  is  to  be  there  just  to  support  him,  and  will 
not  have  to  open  his  mouth. 

Edward  consented.    He  will  dress  once  again  as  an  offici- 


434  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

ating  priest,  and  that  will  be  the  end  of  it.  Once  more,  and 
for  the  last  time.  Why  not  ?  Allan  wants  him. 

He  put  his  head  in  at  the  door.  "But,  I  say,  old  boy,  have 
you  two  surplices  ?  Can  you  fit  me  out  as  well  as  yourself  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Allan  joyously.  "I'll  fit  you  out."  His 
face  beaming  in  happiness. 

So  Edward  Churchill  made  his  second  appearance  behind 
the  altar  rails. 

And  now  Allan  Gates  was  convinced  that  all  he  had  longed 
for  and  prayed  for  had  at  last  come  to  pass.  Edward  had 
come  back  to  them — returned  to  the  fold — been  brought 
home  in  due  season.  Not  to  Allan  the  glory.  He  had  been 
content  to  watch  and  pray  throughout  the  long  years,  but 
never  once  had  his  confidence  wavered.  In  God's  good  time 
the  thing  would  happen.  And  he  felt  certain  that  it  had 
happened  now. 

He  would  not  allow  Lilian  to  doubt  the  splendid  truth 
of  it 

"Knowing  him  as  I  do,  I  know  that  it  can  mean  nothing 
else."  And  he  said  how  he  had  really  felt  sure  from  the 
moment,  eight  days  ago,  when  Edward  offered  to  take  the 
services  for  him.  "He  could  not  have  done  this  otherwise. 
Although  he  may  not,  at  first,  have  realised  why  it  had 
become  possible  to  him.  So  you  may  say  the  first  time  was 
nothing.  But  the  second  time  proves  it.  Have  no  fear." 

"May  I  ask  him  if  it  is  so?" 

"Yes,  ask  him.    Have  no  fear.    Let  us  go  to  him  now." 

Thus  his  friend  and  his  wife  came  to  him ;  Lilian's  face  all 
joyous,  and  Allan  rubbing  his  hands  together. 

"Edward,  is  it  true?"  And  she  asked  him  explicitly  if 
he  had  recovered  his  lost  belief. 

He  started,  looked  at  their  eager  faces,  and  checked  the 
answer  that  was  rising  to  his  lips.  Then,  after  an  almost 
imperceptible  pause,  he  answered  gravely  and  firmly  that 
what  they  wished  was  true.  Without  consciously  searching 
for  the  words,  he  had  so  framed  his  answer  as  to  avoid  a 
personal  declaration  of  belief;  but,  however  worde<J,  the 
sense  of  the  answer  was  unequivocal.  He  made  them  think 
that  what  they  had  hoped  for  was  true. 

This  was  his  last  great  renunciation— costing  him  some- 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  435 

thing  even  now.  Must  one  deny  one's  deepest  right,  may  not 
one  have  one  secret  innermost  place  that  is  one's  very  own  ? 
No ;  for  those  you  love,  give  all.  No  holding  back  to  your- 
self— no  limitations  or  half  measures.  Give  yourself,  your 
life,  your  all.  Why  not?  What  is  it  really?  What  does  it 
count — to  bring  happiness  to  the  loved  wife,  the  loved 
friend?  They  want  it — that  is  enough.  As  to  the  dignity  of 
self,  which  forbids  one  to  subscribe  to  the  recantation  of 
one's  thoughts— that  is  too  vain  and  futile.  The  mirror  is 
the  guide. 

One  look  at  their  faces  told  him  that  he  was  right.  They 
were  radiantly  happy.  Henceforth,  so  far  as  those  two  are 
concerned,  he  must  act  a  lie — if  he  cannot  make  it  the  truth. 
They  must  always  think  it  is  the  truth. 

And  perhaps  in  dread  of  widening  consequences,  or 
merely  as  an  instinctive  precaution,  he  gently  pleaded  for  his 
old  freedom  of  action. 

"I  don't  think  I  should  care  to  go  to  church  very  regu- 
larly— perhaps  scarcely  at  all; — I  mean  no  more  than  in 
the  past." 

"No,  no.  Whatever  you  like,"  cried  Gates.  And  Lilian 
agreed.  They  are  absolutely  content,  and  will  leave  him 
unmolested.  He  is  safe  now — that  is  all  they  craved  to 
know  for  certain. 

The  acting  of  a  lie  would  not  do.  The  truth  and  nothing 
but  the  truth  was  required.  It  had  been  a  foolish  thought,  if 
he  supposed  that  anything  less  would  suffice. 

He  could  not  write,  either  that  day  or  the  days  that  fol- 
lowed. He  sat  idle  in  his  room,  or  wandered  out  of  the 
house  by  himself.  He  wanted  to  be  alone ;  he  was  afraid  of 
the  company  of  those  who  were  dear  to  him.  Something  had 
come  between  him  and  them.  They  were  not  conscious  of  it ; 
it  was  only  he  who  knew  that  when  they  fancied  they  had 
drawn  closest  to  him,  a  barrier  that  might  prove  impenetrable 
had  suddenly  arisen  to  separate  them.  But  that  must  not  be. 

He  said  to  himself,  "I  will  accept  the  working  hypothesis. 
I  will  believe  all  that  I  can ;  I  will  believe  all  that  I  can't— 
for  their  sakes.  Love  has  no  limits  to  its  demands,  or  to  its 
power.  It  takes  all,  but  it  can  give  all.  Love  can  make  me 
believe.  Perhaps  nothing  else." 


436  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

In  this  sense  he  longed  to  believe  and  prayed  for  belief. 
He  longed  for  the  still  larger,  richer  life  which  he  could 
reach  now  with  belief  added — more  infinitely,  than  when  he 
was  young,  and,  except  for  his  mother,  had  no  ties  that 
bound  him  to  earthly  things.  If  behind  and  beyond  the  beauty 
of  these  lakes,  and  the  hills  and  their  fragrant  vesture  of 
flowers,  he  could  see  the  beauty  of  the  eternal  world  of 
spirit,  as  Lilian  could,  as  Stella  could,  as  Allan  could,  how 
much,  much  joy  would  be  added.  Above  all,  he  longed  for 
the  close  communion  of  spirit  with  the  three  people  that  he 
loved  more  than  himself,  his  work,  his  life. 

He  looked  into  his  own  mind,  and  it  seemed  that  there  was 
nothing  there  that  was  not  either  a  reflection  of  external 
objects  or  the  memory  of  them,  or  the  print  of  the  impulses 
that  had  come  from  them  and  passed  through  him.  His  best 
thoughts  had  always  come  to  him  seemingly  from  outside, 
even  his  imaginations  or  inventions.  It  seemed  that  he  had 
originated  nothing  from  within.  Faith  had  entered  into  him, 
doubt  had  entered  into  him,  disbelief  had  entered  into  him. 
He  remembered  how  he  had  once  fancied  that  the  highest 
task  of  his  life  would  be  to  chase  doubt  from  great  men's 
minds — minds  so  much  stronger  than  his.  Why  cannot  he  do 
this  now  for  himself?  And  again  came  the  thought,  "Love 
can  do  it  for  me.  If  I  am  passive,  love  will  do  it — love  shall 
do  it." 

So  when  Sunday  morning  came  he  did  not  use  his  free- 
dom. He  went  to  church  and  knelt  by  Lilian's  side,  with  his 
mind  cleaned  and  emptied,  his  heart  like  the  heart  of  a  child. 


LIV 

IT  was  autumn  again,  after  a  perfect  summer.  September 
had  a  ripeness  and  fullness  that  surpassed  all  previous 
months;  the  air  was  dreamy,  the  earth  gave  forth  sweet 
perfumes.  In  every  vineyard  one  met  groups  of  laughing 
girls,  and  high  on  the  hillside  one  heard  laughter  and  music ; 
the  world  had  become  a  harvest  festival. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  the  Churchills  rowed  across  the 
lake  to  attend  a  festa  organised  by  the  Roman  priests.  The 
village  landing-place  was  one  of  the  largest  on  the  lake,  with 
shallow  steps  on  three  sides ;  and  beyond  there  was  an  open 
space  surrounded  by  trimmed  planes  and  used  often  for  a 
market.  On  the  far  side  of  this,  a  rapid  ascent  through 
cypress  trees  led  one  to  the  piazza  of  the  church.  Before 
the  landing-steps  big  peasant-boats  used  to  lie  at  anchor 
throughout  the  week.  But  to-day  dozens  of  boats  of  all  sorts 
were  tied  up,  gently  bobbing  and  scraping,  so  that  the 
watery  space  was  like  the  enclosure  of  a  race-course;  and 
more  and  still  more  boats  were  coming.  All  the  shore  was 
crowded.  Processions  of  priests  and  their  followers  were 
moving  beneath  bright-coloured  banners ;  a  band  was  play- 
ing ;  the  church  bells  rang. 

They  tied  up  their  boat,  and  Churchill  remained  in  it, 
while  Allan,  Lilian,  and  Stella  went  to  "do  the  festa"— and 
see  all  that  there  was  to  be  seen. 

What  can  they  see?  Out  here  from  the  boat  it  is  all 
colour,  movement,  and  confusion,  without  meaning  apparent 
— but  one  can  piece  it  together.  It  is  the  pageant  of  life  in 
little.  Is  it  more  at  close  range?  When  you  stand  in  ihe 
crowd,  is  the  meaning  apparent?  You  must  go  where  the 
pressure  guides  you.  They  are  all  going  one  way:  then 
surely  the  goal  is  worth  reaching? 

All  the  beautiful  pageant  of  life — does  it  matter,  the  size 
of  the  stage,  the  number  of  the  actors?  Here  are  the  peas- 
ants- men  and  women  and  children,  bringing  their  votive 
offerings— all  that  the  earth  itself  yields— fruit,  flowers,  and 

437 


438  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

beasts.  Not  much.  But  our  pope  lias  big  pockets,  takes  the 
kind  thought  for  the  rich  gift — takes  both;  and  our  father 
at  Rome  has  many  fetes.  Let  us  hope  he  may  get  all  he 
wants  when  he  puts  all  together.  Thus  they  go,  the  poor 
peasants — bright-eyed  slaves  of  a  magic  that  makes  them 
happy.  Here  are  the  muttering  priests,  robed  as  rich  as  a 
pope,  and  all  one  with  a  pope  to  the  peasants.  The  banners 
wave  and  gladden  the  eye,  the  little  boys  sing,  and  the  maid- 
ens whisper ;  and  the  smoke  from  the  censor  swings  out  and 
rises  and  fades ;  and  the  prayers  and  the  hopes  in  the  mut- 
tered words  are  as  smoke,  soon  lost  in  the  sunlight.  The 
babe  on  its  mother's  arm  clutches,  without  sense  of  space  or 
bulk,  at  the  glittering  cope,  the  lofty  cross  with  its  dazzling 
jewels,  at  the  sun  itself ;  and  cries  when  it  finds  its  hand  still 
empty.  Here  are  policemen,  soldiers,  shopkeepers  from  the 
town.  Here  are  the  smart  hotel  visitors  from  Bellagio  and 
Cadenabbia,  men  in  Panama  hats,  women  in  rainbow  dresses, 
mingling  with  the  humble  throng — of  it  completely,  yet 
thinking  themselves  above  it ; — all  nations  these,  with  no  link 
to  bind  them  unless  it  be  that  they  all  are  bound  in  golden 
fetters;  lords,  ladies — princes  from  the  princely  villas — all 
come  out  to  kill  time,  without  a  shiver  in  the  warm  sunlight 
because  they  all  know  it  is  time  that  will  kill  them.  This  is 
the  pageant  of  life.  What  actors  are  missing? 

He  waited  patiently  in  the  boat  for  a  long  time — till  again 
the  boats  are  going.  And  his  mind  is  vacant  and  peaceful. 
There  is  nothing  there  now  but  the  bright  pure  flame  and  a 
crystal  clear  mirror.  Time  is  gone,  and  space  is  annihilated. 
He  rouses  himself  when  the  others  return,  smiles  at  them — a 
wonderful  smile,  and  a  welcoming  look  that  goes  to  their 
hearts. 

But  at  such  times,  when  he  cannot  count  the  gliding  min- 
utes or  think  in  words,  the  thought-vapour  must  be  there — 
something  that  transcends  thought.  Day  by  day  the  power 
of  thought  is  strengthening,  widening.  He  is  wiser  every 
day,  stronger.  Books  that  were  difficult  are  now  easy  to 
read — and  men  are  as  easy  to  read  as  books.  Something  like 
the  clairvoyant  wisdom — far-reaching,  barrier-breaking — of 
the  greatest  thinkers  has  come  to  him,  slowly  and  surely,  by 
not  thinking. 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  439 

The  lake  is  most  beautiful,  at  all  hours.  Allan  is  sculling 
them  very  slowly— merely  paddling— and  husband,  wife  and 
child  sit  together  beneath  the  awning. 

"Pull  it  down,"  says  the  girl.  "The  sun  cannot  hurt  us 
now." 

"Nothing  can  hurt  us  now,"  he  says  dreamily. 

The  screen  is  lowered,  to  give  them  a  wider  view ;  and  the 
boat  glides  slowly  onward  by  the  shore. 

Beneath  them  are  the  silent  depths;  over  the  surface  of 
the  water  light  airs  come  creeping  from  the  gates  of  the 
other  lake,  and  with  the  gentle  breeze  is  borne  to  them  the 
far-off  sounds  of  life — faint  music,  evening  bells,  herdsmen 
calling.  Hidden  from  them  on  the  other  lake,  behind  tha 
wooded  hill,  there  is  a  pleasure  steamer  making  restless  noise 
to  remind  them  of  the  world.  The  unceasing,  rhythmic  and 
yet  fretful  beat  of  the  unseen  paddle-wheel  throbs  faintly  on 
the  ear.  It  is  the  heart-beat  of  the  world — futile,  furious, 
unceasing. 

They  glide  on,  past  the  stately  villas,  backs  of  humble 
houses  clustered  at  the  foot  of  quarried  cliffs,  hanging  woods, 
gardens  and  vineyards,  and  again  the  stately  villas.  The 
shore  is  a  beautiful  picture  unfolding  itself.  But  Edward 
Churchill  looks  at  it  in  the  water — the  reflected,  inverted 
picture  that  little  children  love.  Hold  your  gaze  on  the 
depths,  and  you  never  know  what  the  picture  will  be  till  it 
comes.  In  this  steady  sunlight,  the  color  and  the  solidity  of 
the  mirage  are  as  perfect  as  the  objects  they  represent.  But 
the  mirage  forms,  glows,  fades,  and  is  utterly  gone  as  you 
pass.  Look  back,  and  no  trace  is  left — only  the  silent 
depths. 

Cypresses,  stone  steps,  flowers  festooned  on  marble  balus- 
trades; smooth  lawns,  palace  walls — this  is  wealth.  Don't 
look  forward,  don't  look  back.  A  little  beach  and  a  fisher- 
man's boat,  a  cabin  and  a  slated  roof — this  is  poverty.  Don't 
look  back.  Don't  look  forward.  The  picture  has  formed, 
gained  strength,  and  vanished.  And  this  is  all  that  life  can 
show  as  one  passes.  We  may  try  to  stand  still,  to  keep  the 
picture  with  us ;  but  in  truth  we  cannot.  The  shadows  are 
falling,  the  light  itself  is  fading;  our  picture  must  change, 
even  if  we  do  not  move.  In  a  little  while  it  will  be  gone  as 
completely  as  if  we  ourselves  had  passed  on. 


LV 

THE  fact  of  Churchill's  doing  duty  for  his  sick  friend  did 
not  go  unnoticed.  It  was  reported  in  England,  and  it  had 
caused  some  trouble.  The  trustees  of  the  church,  when  they 
heard  of  it,  desired  an  explanation  from  Gates.  Was  it  not 
highly  irregular,  in  view  of  Mr.  Churchill's  status ;  or  were 
they  under  a  misapprehension  on  this  point?  The  ecclesi- 
astical authorities  also  became  aware  of  the  occurrence,  and, 
off  and  on,  throughout  the  winter,  Allan  Gates  had  been 
mildly  badgered  by  them.  He  was  obliged  to  send  lengthy 
answers  to  letters  from  the  Bishop  of  West  Europe.  He  said 
nothing  to  Edward  or  to  Lilian  about  these  little  worries. 

It  was  the  custom  of  the  Bishop  and  his  wife — when  cross- 
ing their  gigantic  diocese  in  spring  and  autumn — to  stay 
two  or  three  days  with  Allan  and  the  Churchills.  But  they 
had  not  come  this  spring.  They  would  be  here,  no  doubt, 
before  the  autumn  was  over.  The  Bishop  knew  all  about 
Churchill,  was  familiar  with  the  details  of  his  whole  career. 
He  was  a  dry  little  chap;  old,  genial,  but  fond  of  argument; 
he  would  often  tackle  Churchill  at  dinner,  not  as  a  bishop 
but  as  a  man  of  the  world,  discussing  his  books,  making  him 
stand  up  in  self-defence,  and  explain  the  logic  of  incidents 
or  the  development  of  characters.  But  he  liked  Churchill 
very  much,  and  was  one  of  the  most  tolerant  of  men. 

He  and  his  wife  duly  turned  up  at  the  end  of  September, 
on  a  glorious  day  about  tea-time.  After  tea  his  good  lady 
withdrew  to  her  room  to  repose  herself,  while  he  and  the 
others  went  out  upon  the  lake.  Allan  sculled  stroke,  Miss 
Stella  bow;  Edward  Churchill  steered,  with  the  bishop  on 
one  side  of  him  and  Lilian  on  the  other.  The  boat  shot  out 
from  the  pier  in  grand  style;  the  scullers  settled  to  their 
work  with  a  will;  then,  taking  things  easier,  slackened  the 
pace,  and  the  progress  was  gentle,  peaceful,  lullingly  smooth. 

As  they  glided  along,  the  Bishop  opened  his  mind. 

He  told  Edward  Churchill  about  the  clerical  fuss  and 
annoyance.  He,  the  bishop,  had  himself  been  badgered. 

440 


THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP  441 

Letters,  interviews — even  a  visit  to  Lambeth.  Everybody 
was,  of  course,  delighted  that  Churchill  had  come  back  to 
the  fold — but  there  really  was  very  considerable  scandal  and 
fuss,  which,  fortunately,  he  has  now  been  able  to  set  right. 

"Is  it  real?" — Even  that  had  been  asked  in  regard  to 
Churchill's  vindication  of  his  religious  belief.  The  Bishop 
knew  well  that  there  was  no  ground  for  such  a  question ;  he 
knew  the  absolute  genuineness  of  this  unreserved  recognition 
of  past  error  and  resumption  of  a  faith  that  had  never  been 
totally  abandoned.  Otherwise  he  would  not  be  saying  these 
words.  But  fame  has  its  penalties.  A  public  man  is  public 
property,  and  his  owners  will  talk  about  him.  When  you 
have  countless  admirers,  you  must  have  detractors  also 
among  the  small,  envious  souls  who  like  to  think  and  speak 
evil  of  the  great.  Moreover,  on  the  technical  side  of  the 
matter — well,  one  must  be  governed  by  those  who  are  ap- 
pointed to  govern.  A  clergyman  who  has  been  inhibited,  a 
clergyman  without  a  license  "to  preach  the  word  of  God 

and  administer  the  sacraments "  Really  our  friend 

Gates  quite  put  himself  in  the  wrong. 

Allan  and  the  girl  had  ceased  rowing;  the  boat  drifted  on. 

"And  the  crux  may  occur  again,"  the  Bishop  continued. 
It  would  be  very  convenient  to  Gates,  it  would  be  useful  to 
everybody,  to  have  a  substitute  ready.  It  would  be  useful, 
as  an  object  lesson  for  the  world,  to  have  such  a  man — to 
have  this  particular  man.  Churchill  in  his  surplice  answers 
all  the  questions,  hushes  all  the  scandal  as  to  Churchill's 
infidelity  and  that  ancient  quarrel  with  the  authorities. 

So  the  Bishop  has  obtained  the  lifting  of  the  ban,  and  he 
proposes  to  appoint  Edward  Churchill  as  a  chaplain,  hono- 
rary, to  himself.  Churchill  will  have  no  duties  to  perform ; 
the  appointment  will  be  a  sinecure  that  carries  with  it  neither 
function  nor  emolument,  but  it  will  give  a  proper  status  as  a 
priest.  And  by  his  manner  and  his  tone  he  conveyed  to  all 
of  them  that  in  this  he  intends  not  only  to  rehabilitate 
Edward  Churchill  most  handsomely,  but  to  do  him  consid- 
erable honour. 

Thus  Churchill  can  wear  the  Sunday  surplice  without 
qualms.  He  can  resume  the  week-day  livery,  and  show  him- 
self boldly  on  lake  and  shore  in  the  orthodox  collar  and  black 
coat. 


442  THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

Churchill  sat  tongue-tied.  The  Bishop  was  smiling  at  him 
with  great  kindness ;  Lilian  had  laid  her  hand  on  his ;  Allan 
was  beaming.  His  daughter,  leaning  to  one  side,  showed  her 
bright  face,  and  he  could  read  in  it  her  pride  and  love.  To 
her  this  is  most  splendid  tidings — rehabilitation,  acknowledg- 
ment of  father's  true  worth  at  last,  the  lifting  of  that  cloud 
upon  his  name.  He  had  not  known  till  now  that  she  har- 
boured these  feelings. 

The  boat  drifted  on,  in  the  golden  sunlight,  on  the  bosom 
of  the  deep  lake ;  and  there  was  silence.  Churchill  remem- 
bered the  hour  when,  throwing  off  the  coat  and  collar,  he 
made  a  vow  that  he  would  never  again  carry  the  ugly  yoke 
of  superstition.  But  that  was  not  really  himself :  that  was 
another  man.  In  his  rage  and  revolt  he  had  called  his 
priestly  garb  the  devil's  livery.  Now  he  may  wear  it  again. 

"What  say  you  to  that?"  asked  the  Bishop. 

"I  say  you  are  very  kind,"  said  Churchill,  with  a  catch 
of  the  breath.  "Very,  very  kind.  And  I  thank  you — I  thank 
you." 

Then  they  were  all  happy — all  thanking  the  kind  Bishop. 
Allan  and  the  girl  poised  their  sculls,  and  bent  and  swung. 
They  talked  gaily,  while  the  steersman  sat  mute.  The  sun- 
light fell  bright  on  the  lake,  glancing  on  the  surface,  not 
piercing  the  silent  depths.  But  the  steersman  was  happy. 
The  flame  was  leaping  high ;  the  mirror  was  crystal  clear. 


THE   END 


ENGLISH  REVIEWS  OF  "THE  MIRROR 
AND  THE  LAMP" 


Westminster  Gazette 

Not  since  The  Ragged  Messenger  has  any  English  novel- 
ist given  us  so  painstaking,  so  sympathetic,  and  so  deeply 
ironical  a  study  of  the  religious  temperament  as  Mr.  W.  B. 
Maxwell,  in  his  return  to  the  theme  in  which  he  of  all  liv- 
ing writers  excels,  The  Mirror  and  the  Lamp. 

The  Globe 

Mr.  W.  B.  Maxwell's  latest  novel,  The  Mirror  and  the 
Lamp,  is  the  finest  book  he  has  yet  written. 

Sheffield  Telegraph 

In  his  new  book,  The  Mirror  and  the  Lamp,  Mr.  W.  B. 
Maxwell  has  for  his  central  character  a  clergyman  who  lost 
his  faith  and  took  to  himself  the  ill-used  wife  of  an  evil 
labour  leader  and  lived  with  her  in  what  is  technically  known 
as  "sin."  Those  are  the  crude  facts  as  they  might  be  whis- 
pered over  a  cup  of  tea,  but  Edward  Churchill  was  no  vulgar 
sensualist.  He  was  of  a  deeply  spiritual  and  introspective  na- 
ture, who  from  the  first  found  in  the  church  his  true  voca- 
tion. He  deliberately  set  aside  the  highest  opportunities  of 
advancement  in  order  to  give  himself  to  the  work  in  a  poor 
parish,  and  until  he  met  Lilian  his  blood  never  seems  to  have 
given  him  any  trouble.  .  .  .  Whether  he  did  right  or 
wrong  is  a  matter  of  opinion  ;  after  all,  it  is  a  world  of  make- 
belief  and  compromise.  Mr.  Maxwell  has  written  a  pro- 
found and  intimate  study  on  an  old  but  eternal  theme,  and 
it  is  good  work. 

Morning  Post 

But  with  the  story  is  developed  a  moral  which  explains. 
It  is  signified  in  the  title.  The  lamp  is  one's  innermost  self, 
and  the  mirror  is  one's  mind.  The  lamp — the  soul,  call  it  as 
you  will — is  imperishable  in  its  power  to  light  the  mirror, 
and  show  what  is  fair  and  foul. 


Lady's  Pictorial 

The  Mirror  and  the  Lamp,  by  W.  B.  Maxwell,  is  a  book 
of  serious  purport,  extremely  well  done  and  full  of  truth 
and  artistry.  The  Mirror  is  conscience,  and  the  Lamp  the 
flame  of  truth ;  and  the  story  traces  the  spiritual  history  of 
the  hero,  Edward  Churchill,  from  boyhood  to  middle  life. 
.  .  .  It  is  altogether  an  extremely  interesting  and  clever 
book. 

Weekly  Despatch 

A  fine  piece  of  work,  and  one  feels  the  soul  struggle  of 
Edward  Churchill. 

The  Times 

And  this  brings  us  to  his  unusual  talent  for  secondary 
characters.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Walsden  simply  "is" ;  if  Tolstoy 
had  been  an  Englishman,  this  is  the  Mr.  Walsden  whom  he 
might  have  given  us,  though  we  wonder  whether  even  Tol- 
stoy's Mr.  Walsden  would  have  made  us  such  staunch 
friends;  the  sergeant  is  perfectly  a  sergeant,  through  Mr. 
Maxwell's  almost  unerring  instinct  for  dialogue.  And  there 
is  Mrs.  Churchill.  In  this  saint-like,  flawed,  pitiful  woman, 
whom  we  instinctively  distrust  from  the  first,  whom  we  feel 
convinced  that  Mr.  Maxwell  dislikes  while  he  pities,  all  the 
elements  of  beauty  in  the  novel  seem  to  concentrate  them- 
selves. Her  physical  presence,  so  slightly  but  distinctly 
conveyed;  her  early  confession  to  her  son,  whose  love, 
womanlike,  is  made  even  more  tender  by  disillusion ;  her 
final  degradation — all  these  form  a  little  masterpiece  in  the 
midst  of  excellence. 

James  Douglas  in  The  Star 

And  yet  the  spiritual  struggle  breaks  out  over  and  over 
again,  and  I  catch  glimpses  of  a  soul  ill  at  ease,  and  striving 
to  be  at  rest.  And  these  glimpses  somehow  do  convey  that 
sense  of  incompleteness,  of  starvation,  of  deprivation  which 
is  more  and  more  the  mark  of  our  day.  Hungry  souls  in  a 
world  of  hungry  souls!  the  old  shibboleths  and  catchwords 
taste  like  war-bread.  We  yearn  for  vision,  for  beauty,  for 
poise,  or,  to  put  it  quite  simply,  for  peace.  It  is  not  new, 
this  hunger.  It  is  as  old  as  Job  and  the  psalmist.  But  the 
area  of  the  hunger  is  larger.  There  is  a  job  to-day  in  every 
street,  in  every  slum.  I  am  Job.  You  are  Job.  Job  is 
Everyman. 


The  Scotsman 

Patiently,  almost  minutely,  Mr.  Maxwell,  in  his  latest 
novel,  builds  up  an  arresting  picture  of  life. 

Daily  Graphic 

The  story  is  worthy  of  its  author's  high  reputation,  and 
is  an  absorbing  study  of  the  clash  of  ideals  with  a  great  pas- 
sion. 

Manchester  Guardian 

It  is  perhaps  the  dreadfulness  of  the  physical  conflict 
now  engaging  the  world  that  turns  many  minds  to  questions 
of  spiritual  energy  and  aspiration.  At  least  it  may  be  held 
certain  that  a  part  of  the  interest  of  Mr.  Maxwell's  novel  is 
due  to  some  such  revolt. 

Daily  Chronicle 

Mr.  W.  B.  Maxwell  comes  back  from  the  war  with  a 
novel,  The  Mirror  and  the  Lamp,  which  will  be  very  wel- 
come. When  Armageddon  broke  he  put  down  the  pen  and 
took  up  the  sword.  He  has  done  his  "bit,"  done  it  simply 
and  well  with  the  Royal  Fusiliers,  and  now  he  resumes  his 
pen.  It  is  not  a  war  story  that  he  gives  us,  though  nobody 
who  has  been  in  the  thick  of  the  Somme  fighting  could  write 
without  some  of  the  influence  of  the  war  at  his  elbow.  It 
is  a  story  with  a  soul  problem,  at  least  a  moral  problem — 
namely,  how  the  spiritual  side  of  a  man  and  a  woman  react 
to  an  unsanctified  life.  The  man  is  Edward  Churchill,  who 
was  destined  for  religion — nay,  had  a  call  for  religion.  But 
into  his  life,  rich  in  hopes  and  ideals,  there  comes  a  wronged 
wife,  a  woman  of  subtle,  fine  qualities  and  that  meeting 
makes  both  their  lives  different.  The  subject  is  difficult  and, 
just  for  that  reason,  one  which  Mr.  Maxwell  handles  with 
insight,  with  delicacy,  and  with  artistry. 

National  News 

W.  B.  Maxwell  has  been  in  France,  in  the  fighting  line, 
literally  in  "The  Devil's  Garden,"  though  not  the  one  wrote 
of  in  his  novel  of  that  name  four  years  ago ;  but  there  is  no 
trace  of  the  war  in  his  new  story,  The  Mirror  and  the  Lamp, 
a  subtle,  sometimes  cynical  study  in  the  after  effects  of  the 
strict,  narrowly  religious  upbringing  of  three  boys,  sons  of 
the  widowed  Mrs.  Churchill. 


Glasgow  Herald 

The  mirror  of  the  mind  and  the  lamp  of  the  soul  form  a 
large  subject,  and  when  in  addition  love  and  religion  clash 
it  will  be  seen  that  this  is  a  serious  novel  indeed. 

Aberdeen  Herald 

After  his  long  silence  of  five  years — due  mainly  to  his 
having  exchanged  the  pen  for  the  sword — Mr.  Maxwell's 
many  admirers  will  be  enthusiastic  over  his  latest  novel 
which  is  more  than  worthy  of  its  author's  high  reputation. 
The  reader  might  expect  that  the  war  would  now  be  the 
dominant  reality  for  Mr.  Maxwell,  but  it  has  no  part  or  in- 
fluence in  The  Mirror  and  the  Lamp. 

The  Rev.  Edward  Churchill  is  the  third  son  of  his 
mother,  a  widow,  and  also  a  foolish  and  hysterical  woman, 
but  her  third  son  adores  her.  His  two  elder  brothers  are 
both  disappointments,  but  Edward  is  her  joy,  and  her  happi- 
ness is  complete  when,  after  a  successful  career  at  Oxford, 
he  is  ordained  and  obtains  an  East-End  curacy.  There  he 
works  with  single-hearted  devotion,  refusing  preferment, 
but  much  of  his  enthusiasm  is  damped  when  his  mother 
marries  a  vulgar  tradesman.  More  than  ever  does  he  de- 
termine to  live  by  the  mirror  and  the  lamp,  striving  to  make 
the  lamp  of  his  soul  reflect  in  its  mirror,  the  mind,  nothing 
but  the  steady  flame  of  content.  But  his  ascetic  celibacy 
is  rudely  shattered  when  he  falls  in  love  with  a  woman  un- 
happily married  to  a  brutal  husband.  In  the  spirit  of  knight- 
errantry  he  rescues  her,  but  with  the  triumph  of  an  unau- 
thorized love,  his  religious  faith  gives  way.  Whether  an 
attitude  of  blank  atheism  will  satisfy  this  intellectual  aris- 
tocrat, and  how  their  unsanctified  life  will  react  on  the  moral 
nature  of  the  man  and  woman,  the  reader  will  prefer  to  dis- 
cover for  himself. 

Sunday  Evening  Telegram 

Considered  as  a  study  of  a  sensitive  man's  struggle  both 
to  think  and  to  act  rightly,  The  Mirror  and  the  Lamp  is  in- 
tensely interesting. 


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from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


